


if you change your mind

by leetlebird



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Getting Back Together, Lack of Communication, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, endgame jp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetlebird/pseuds/leetlebird
Summary: Beneath the table, Jack’s hand squeezes around Kent’s knee. And -- Kent forgets. For just a few seconds, he forgets that they can’t be together, that Jack doesn’t want him in that way, that he’s trying to move on.“We’re friends, right?” Jack says.“Yeah, Zimms,” he says. “We’re friends.”Or: Kent and Jack are friends, then friends-with-benefits, then maybe something more. Kent isn’t sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> jackparse? i don’t know her. which is to say, this is the ship that’s burrowed deep deep in my amygdala, and it’s high time i wrote them. which is also to say, i’ve been terrified to write them, but here we are. big, big thank yous to [cadenzamuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadenzamuse/profile) and [sina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sina/profile) for beta-reading for me. 
> 
> warnings for unprotected sex, shitty communication, and general dumbassery.

There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.

\-- F. Scott Fitzgerald  


  


  


  


  


  


  


In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.  
Let’s say you’re driving down the road with your eyes closed  
but my eyes are also closed.

Let’s say that one of us is peeking.

\-- Richard Siken

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Honey, I’m still free  
Take a chance on me

\-- ABBA  


  


  


  


  


  


On the day that Jack’s breakup with Eric Bittle goes public, Kent finds out right after going down 4-1 against Buffalo. A reporter with a weird greasy moustache shoves his phone at Kent’s face and says, “Kent, you’ve made several supportive statements about Jack Zimmermann in the past. Have you reached out to Zimmermann now that his relationship with Eric Bittle has ended? Do you expect this to have an impact on the Falconers game next week?”

Kent had frozen, then, and after a few seconds blurted out _something_. He has no idea what he said, even a few seconds after he says it. Later, he watches the interview online with a knot of dread in his stomach. He absolutely expects to have said something damning, unforgivable -- “I’m freaking out but kind of excited at the same time because I’m super gay for him,” maybe -- but all he’d managed to get out was, “Jack’s always gonna do great. Hockey next week is just hockey, our game doesn’t change. It’ll be great.” As far as soundbytes go it -- wasn’t great, actually, but Kent knows it could have been much worse. 

There’s one pap shot of Jack that’s floating around online already. He looks sad, but to be fair he looks sad a solid 80% of the time. He has resting sad-face, if that’s a thing. 

Kent stares at the picture for a while. He wonders how long Jack and the Bittle kid had been broken up before the media got wind of it. He looks down at his phone where it rests in his hand. It’s always a bad idea to text Zimms, so he decides not to do it. 

He types out _Sorry to hear the news, hope things are good_ and then deletes it, because it sounds fake and he really shouldn’t text Jack anymore. He doesn’t know what to say, anyway. 

He types out three blue heart emojis and hits send.

“Well, fuck me,” Kent mumbles. It should be illegal for him to have a phone. At the very least, he really needs to get around to deleting Jack’s number. Deleting Jack’s number would be an important step in his totally successful self-improvement plan to move on and stop saving part of his heart for a guy who isn’t interested. 

Kent does not delete Jack’s number.

  


  


Jack doesn’t text him back.

Kent didn’t expect him to, so it’s fine.

  


  


And then, two months later, Jack does text him back.

It’s after they play each other in the All-Star Game. Kent beats Jack, which he’s a little too happy about, and they see each other at the bar afterward when Jack walks right into Kent and practically breaks Kent’s toe when he steps on it with his fancy dress shoe.

“Oh,” Jack says, looking profoundly uncomfortable and not meeting Kent’s eyes. He scratches at his hair. “Uh. Hi.”

Kent opens his mouth to say something polite and normal. “Watch where you’re going, Zimms.” Well -- close enough. At least it’s obvious that he’s joking. Kent _thinks_ it’s obvious that he’s joking.

Jack looks at him. “What? Oh. Ha.” 

“What, did you forget how to say words that are more than one syllable?” Kent’s about ready to put his foot in his mouth, but he never knows what to do when he’s with Jack. He always feels like he has to push somewhere.

But Jack smiles at him, a real one. “The word you’re looking for is polysyllabic, smartass.”

Kent blinks. “Huh?”

Jack laughs at him, eyes crinkling at the edges, and they talk at the bar for another few minutes. It’s awkward, and it’s stilted, and Kent keeps shoving his hands in and out of his pockets, but Jack says they should try to meet up for coffee soon.

“We have a lot of things we need to talk about,” Jack says. “And I think it’s time to, uh, talk about it. Okay?”

Kent feels his whole body go hot. _Talking about it_ is the last thing he wants to do, because _talking about it_ is probably code for Jack telling him that Kent is a pathetic, clingy freak who needs to get over a relationship Jack was never invested in in the first place. Kent _knows_ that already, and he’s working on getting over it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to handle Jack saying it to his face.

“Yeah, definitely,” Kent says.

They don’t actually get coffee, but Jack responds when Kent texts him about this cheesy commercial Bad Bob is in, and a few weeks later Jack invites Kent to come along when he’s in Vegas for a bachelor party, something with his old college team. Kent isn’t sure if it’s because Jack actually wants to be friends again or just because the bachelors in question are both obsessed with Kent on, like, a swimfan level, but he’s not gonna say no to Jack either way.

Kent doesn’t remember much of that night, but the next day he wakes up with a nasty hangover, a grumpy email from his agent with an attachment of pap shots where Kent is drunk and silly with a bunch of ex-Samwell students, and a text from Jack that just reads, _Take care of yourself, Kent._

So -- Kent thinks that they’re friends again. Mostly.

The media latches onto a few of the pictures, the ones where Kent and Jack are laughing together, and at first Kent is scared of more rumors, and then he’s scared of Jack pulling away now that they’re getting attention, but nothing really comes of it. Kent still texts Jack too much, but now Jack usually answers, and sometimes they talk on the phone when Jack is stressed and needs to distract himself from his own thoughts.

(It’s nice to know Kent can still do that.)

Kent really knows they’re friends again after the Aces play Minnesota, when Jack texts him, _Nice game, really liked the part when you fell on your ass. Best American-born player in the league, eh?_

 _Best player in the league period_ , Kent texts back, and he smiles for a couple minutes until Troy tells him he’s being creepy.

  


  


  


  


There have been plenty of moments in Kent’s life where he’s been painfully jealous of Jack Zimmermann. He knows the same is true in reverse, even if he doesn’t totally understand why. Growing up, Jack had money, and supportive parents, and a million contacts in the professional hockey world, and all but a guarantee that he would be in the NHL someday. 

But now that Jack is completely and irreversibly out of the closet, Kent doesn’t feel jealous at all.

Sure, when Jack broke the Internet by making out with Eric Bittle after scoring the game-winner in Game 7 -- _what an asshole_ , Kent thinks reflexively, fondly -- it had been overwhelming. Something out of a ridiculous gay fantasy, and Kent couldn’t believe that Jack was allowed to have this.

But then came the press conferences, and the paparazzi camped out by Jack’s apartment, and the mess that was Jack’s Twitter mentions. Then came preseason, when Kent was reminded all over again why he’d never considered coming out privately within the NHL, let alone to the whole world. 

Kent hasn’t asked Jack if he regrets it. If Jack didn’t regret it before, he sure as hell must regret it now. He went from five months as the Gay Golden Boy (Jack never bothered to correct them), as the appointed role model for all the sad oppressed gay children out there, and now all those profile writers have dumped him and left him to be nothing but gossip column fodder. 

Kent doesn’t want that. It would be nice to come out, but he doesn’t need to. He’s scared, and that’s okay. He isn’t going to tell anyone this, but sometimes when he’s having a rough week he daydreams about the day that his jersey number will be retired, and he doesn’t want anyone suggesting that Vegas only retired the number ninety because Kent is gay.

His family knows he’s gay. Jack knows he’s gay. Jack's parents know he's gay. That’s good enough. Apparently Eric Bittle knows he’s gay, which is kind of fucking inconsiderate on Jack’s part, Kent thinks, but whatever. His whole family’s only on that list because his mom called a family meeting so she could sob dramatically and say a bunch of dumb shit when she found out. Again, whatever.

A couple guys on the Aces know Kent is gay. Kent tries not to think about that, even though he’s the one who told them. His therapist probably counts too.

Kent’s glad he’s in control of that list. He’s glad it’s not millions of people around the world. 

“I support him 100%,” Kent says when he’s asked about it at a post-game, early in March. He tries to cut his response into nice little bites, the kind of thing that will warm people’s hearts without making them suspicious. “He’s one of the best players out there. It’s 2017, he deserves to be himself without hiding, you know? He deserves to be happy.”

He’s especially proud of the “it’s 2017” thing. It makes him sound really straight.

 _I deserve to be happy?_ Jack texts him. _Aww._

Kent wonders when Jack became such a menace. And when Jack started finding the time to watch Kent’s interviews. But maybe someone sent Jack this one; it was about him, after all. 

Of course Jack deserves to be happy. That’s obvious. That’s like his lungs needing oxygen.

Kent sends a couple poop emojis and leaves it at that.

  


  


  


  


* * * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


Kent is sprawled out on Troy’s hotel bed, beer in hand, watching Troy and Scrappy play cards. He’s got an ice pack propped up under his neck, and it’s not really helping much. 

“Stop holding your cards so I can see them,” Troy says around the stick of beef jerky in his mouth. Scrappy adjusts.

They’ve been doing this for half an hour. Kent is so fucking bored.

His phone buzzes.

  


  


**Jack** 11:38 pm  
Hey, I don’t know when you’ll see this, but would you want to come over? I still think we should talk face to face. And it would be nice to see you.

  


  


And, like, Kent’s bored, but he’s not _that_ bored. He’s not going to go all the way to Providence just for Jack, even if this particular away game in New York puts him a lot closer than usual.

  


  


**Kent** 11:39 pm  
zimms im not driving like 4 hrs to see you. its midnight and i have a game 2mrw.

 **Kent** 11:40 pm  
i think it would be cool to hang out sometime tho. maybe after your out of the playoffs you could come to vegas? *halo emoji*

 **Jack** 11:42 pm  
Haha. Very funny.

  


  


“Zimms thinks I’m funny,” Kent says, looking up. He doesn’t get any response except Troy flipping him the bird without glancing over.

  


  


**Jack** 11:43 pm  
But actually, I’m asking because we’re right by each other. We play the Rangers tomorrow.

 **Jack** 11:43 pm  
You’re in New York, right?

  


  


Kent is freaking out a little, partly because he doesn’t think Jack has ever sent him this many texts in one day. Maybe all of the friendliness over the last few months has been… fake? And now Jack is going to tell him, finally, that he wants Kent out of his life?

Kent tries to find the laminated little card his therapist gave him, the one with a list of grounding statements they came up with last year. Shit. He thinks it’s in his coat pocket. In his own hotel room. Down the hall.

Whatever. He can do this.

  


  


**Kent** 11:45 pm  
yep im here. so you’re saying i should come over to your hotel to talk? *cat face heart-eyes emoji*

 **Jack** 11:45 pm  
Yeah.

 **Jack** 11:46 pm  
I don’t get what that face means, though.

  


  


Kent waits until Jack sends his address, then stands up. “Hey, Scraps?” he says. “Do you still have that one game, the one that’s like Uno but lamer?”

“Skip-Bo?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, nodding and then throwing in a theatrical wince when the movement hurts his neck. “I’d play that. Is it in your room?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back. Sorry, Troy, guess this one’s a draw.”

Troy sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling as Scrappy leaves the room. When the door shuts, Troy lets out a long breath. “I was gonna win that game, fuck you. Okay, what do you want? Is this a gay thing?” Kent has a history of getting Troy alone when it’s time for his weekly gay freak-out, usually media-related, so it isn’t a totally unfair question.

“Fuck you, it’s not a gay thing,” Kent says. “I’m going out. Jack texted me.”

“So it is a gay thing.”

“We’re _friends_ ,” Kent says. “Pals. Just bros. He’s in town for a game too, and we haven’t seen each other in awhile. Just wanted to let you know where I’ll be.” Kent doesn’t know why -- it sure as hell isn’t anything Scrappy did -- but he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about Jack with Scrappy yet. He’s barely comfortable doing this with Troy.

Troy stretches his legs out. “Scrappy’s gonna be sad you left. He’s probably excited for you to beat him at that game again.”

Kent does feel bad about that, but not as much as he should. “Just tell him I got sick or something. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bad idea, Parse.”

“You’re an idiot, Troy.”

Kent needs to sneak out before Scrappy comes back. He leaves the ice pack to get all melty on the bed and starts putting his shoes on. Troy stands over him, frowning. Kent thinks he’s trying to loom, but it’s hard to find Troy intimidating when Kent’s seen him get drunk and pass out face-first onto a hot dog that was, like, drowning in mustard. Troy hadn’t even woken up when it went up his nose. That was a fun Fourth of July.

“So it’s not gonna be a problem that you still wanna have his babies or whatever?”

“That’s not fair.” Kent opens the door to the hotel hallway and checks that the coast is clear. “And only, like, slightly accurate.”

“Don’t do anything dumb,” Troy says. He’s serious all of a sudden. He has a tendency to do that.

Kent gives him what he thinks is the Boy Scouts’ honor hand signal. “I won’t. Promise.”

“Going over there _is_ something -- whatever.” Troy pushes Kent out into the hallway. “Not my problem, Parse. Please don’t be an idiot and please don’t hurt yourself.”

“I never --” The door closes in his face. 

Kent hightails it down to the lobby and hails a cab. He can do this. _They_ can do this. They’ve been working on being friends for months.

  


  


  


  


It would be way easier to focus on being friends if Jack didn’t open the door to his hotel room wearing a tight gray t-shirt that isn’t quite long enough to actually cover his whole stomach, especially when he lifts his arms to hug Kent. 

It would be easier if Kent wasn’t, like, falling over in love with Jack either, but that’s not as simple to navigate as an outfit change. 

“My room’s nicer than this,” Kent says once the door shuts behind him. “Do you even have fluffy bathrobes in here?”

Jack shoves Kent a little, light and easy, and offers Kent a drink. Kent already had one earlier, but this one isn’t out of a can. There’s a nice glass with a little bit of ice in it, and Kent wants to drink with Jack in a classy way. That’ll be a first.

“Mmm,” Kent says once he’s good and settled on the armchair. It’s one of those typical hotel things, stiff and a weird shade of purple and next to a little wooden table. “So what’d you want to talk about?”

“You know,” Jack says, which isn’t true. “Stuff. Uh.” He takes a long pull from his drink. “Stuff we haven’t talked about yet.”

Kent feels like he should move his chair around to Jack’s side of the table, so he does. He bumps his knee against Jack’s, watches a smile appear on Jack’s lips. “Okay. Should we have more to drink first, or are you ready to talk now?”

Jack smiles even bigger. It goes straight to his eyes, and Kent has to look away. Jack leans in to jostle Kent’s knee under the table, this time, and Kent feels himself stop breathing for a second. “I think I definitely need more to drink first. How about you?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Kent says, and Jack laughs.

They pour a second round. Kent angles his chair so he’s facing Jack a little more, and he throws his drink back faster than he probably should. Jack works on his more slowly, mostly because he’s talking so much about the game he won the other night.

“Maybe it’ll be you visiting _me_ when I’m in the finals and you’re done for the season,” Jack says. 

“Yeah, yeah.” The Aces lost again in their most recent game. Their star goalie’s been out with a lower-body injury for two weeks and the other goalies haven’t -- well, it’s been balls. “You’d have to put me up in a fancier place than this if you wanted me to visit.”

It’s too flirty. Kent realizes this the second it leaves his mouth, and his hand tenses around his glass. But Jack just says, “No, you could stay at my place,” like it’s _nothing_ , and takes another drink.

By the time Jack empties his glass, Kent’s practically bouncing in his chair. He feels like he’s buzzing under his skin. He keeps watching the way Jack’s hair falls across his forehead, so long it almost covers his eyebrows. He keeps looking at Jack’s hands -- his fingernails are trimmed unevenly, like Jack got distracted halfway through, and Kent feels way too fond for what the situation really warrants.

“Hey.” One of those hands moves to rest on Kent’s knee. Kent stares down at it, feels his breath catch in his throat. “Kenny. Are you --” Jack’s looking at him. “It’s okay.”

Kent breathes out. It sounds loud in the quiet room, but he tries to ignore that. He wants to ask Jack if he’s ready to talk now. He’s an adult. They’re both adults. It’s time they get through this. “Jack?”

Beneath the table, Jack’s hand squeezes around Kent’s knee. And -- Kent forgets. For just a few seconds, he forgets that they can’t be together, that Jack doesn’t want him in that way, that he’s trying to move on. Kent’s whole body wants Jack on him, in him, touching him, and he looks at Jack with what must be everything written on his face. _You you you you_ , every inch of him screams at Jack, and he feels like everyone in a ten mile radius can hear it, and he doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before Jack grabs the corner of Kent’s sleeve and pulls him closer, his mouth crashing against Kent’s. 

It’s overwhelming: Jack’s teeth nipping at Kent’s lip; Jack’s hand dragging against his side. It’s probably only six seconds, but when Jack pulls away Kent isn’t sure his brain works anymore.

“We’re friends, right?” Jack says, and Kent snorts.

“Yeah, Zimms,” he says. Everything around him is swimming. His brain is mush. This whole situation is hilarious. “We’re friends.”

“Good,” Jack says. “So -- I mean -- this isn’t why I invited you here, but -- can we?” 

Kent wants to be in Jack’s lap so bad right now, but he settles for pulling at Jack’s hair, humming against the warm skin of Jack’s neck. 

Jack clears his throat. “Is it okay -- I want to fuck you. Is that gonna be okay? Just tonight.”

And that is -- well, that’s exactly what Kent has wanted since Jack put his hand on Kent’s knee. But he has a game in less than twenty-four hours, and Jack looks like he’d do some damage tonight. There are other things they can do, though, and Kent isn’t exactly short on ideas when it comes to Jack. “I was thinking we could try 69-ing, if that’s cool with you.”

Kent is the best captain in the world. He’s such a fucking team player; his team doesn’t deserve him.

“Oh,” Jack says, and the way he bites at his lip for a second goes straight to Kent’s dick. “I haven’t done that before.”

“Don’t worry, Zimms.” Kent pulls Jack to his feet, plays with his zipper where he can feel how hard Jack is. It’s nice. It’s so good Kent might pass out. “I can teach you.”

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent focuses very carefully on fastening his seatbelt when Troy sits down next to him on the plane.

“Nice game,” Troy says.

“Yeah.” They barely won, but whatever. A win is a win. “I’m pretty tired. Mind if I borrow your headphones so I can sleep?”

Troy digs out his headphones and holds them out for a second before pulling back. “First, talk. What happened last night?”

Kent tries to keep his facial expression as innocent as he possibly can. “Oh, you know. We talked. Hung out. It was good. How was your night?”

Troy does not hand over the headphones. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Nope,” Kent says, squirming a little in his seat. “What are you talking about?”

Troy leans over and taps Kent on the side of his neck. “So you got this monster hickey just by talking, huh?”

Kent scrambles to cover his neck with his hands. “Shit. Uh --” He doesn’t remember seeing a hickey. He _checked_. “Well. It was like -- oh.” 

Because Troy is grinning at him. There is no hickey.

“Fuck you, Troy.”

“Looks like you’re the one who got fucked, Parson.”

“Ugh.” Kent sits back, throwing his head against his seat a little dramatically so that it bounces forward a bit. It hurts his neck, which is even more sore after last night, but whatever. “I don’t know why I tell you anything.” He takes the headphones from Troy, who looks way too smug, and cranks up the Whitney Houston on his phone.

He waits a whole minute before offering an ear bud to Troy. They listen together, not speaking, and Kent wakes up when the plane is high in the clouds, Troy drooling on his shoulder.

Kent checks his phone. He has a new text from Jack, one that must have been sent while Kent was sleeping.

  


  


**Jack** 11:58 pm  
Nice game. Think I spotted some holes in your defense, though.

  


  


Kent presses his phone against his forehead and breathes out through his nose. He’s itching to shoot a certain kind of response back, one that reminds Jack that that isn’t the only hole he’s seen recently, but he still has some semblance of maturity left. 

Troy snuffles a little on his shoulder, and Kent pats his head.

  


  


**Kent** 12:00 am  
whatever, zimmermann.

 **Kent** 12:00 am  
safe travels

 **Jack** 12:01 am  
You too. Get some sleep.

  


  


Kent puts his phone away, but it’s hard to sleep. 

_I don’t regret it,_ he thinks, but doesn’t send. It’s true anyway.

  


  


  


  


They talk a lot. More than before. They never talk about what happened in Jack’s hotel room, though.

Kent wants to talk to Jack every second of every day. It’s pathetic, but it’s true. He has no idea what Jack wants, but Jack likes schedules. Jack likes routines. So they FaceTime every other day, and trade good luck texts before games, and trade a mix of congratulations and chirps after games.

It’s so much more than Kent would have believed he’d ever get to have, a year ago. Now that he has it, it’s hard not to want even more. 

Jack tries to show him what he’s cooking for dinner, and Kent heats up the pre-cooked meals his nutritionist ordered for him. Jack asks him questions about his parents, about what he does for family skate, and Kent blushes his way through it, embarrassed and weirdly happy that Jack remembers. Jack gets on his case for three whole minutes about not mentoring the rookies closely enough before Kent realizes that Jack’s messing with him, and he blushes some more. 

They talk about the feeder programs into the show, the pros and cons, and Jack talks for, like, ten minutes about his opinions on the treatment of college athletes. Kent holds up his side of the conversation for a while, but then he gets distracted by how tired he is, and how beautiful and interesting and smart Jack is. He’s memorizing Jack’s forehead, moving down to his eyes, and then Jack’s laughing at him.

Kent scowls, shaking his head to wake himself up, and he groans when he sees that Jack’s texted him three screenshots in a row of Kent fast asleep. He looks dumb. He doesn’t look hot at all.

He didn’t even think Jack knew how to take a screenshot. 

“Think it’s time for both of us to go to bed,” Jack says, and Kent realizes that, in Providence, it’s an hour later than Jack would usually stay up.

“Right. You have a game tomorrow.”

Jack pushes his hair back from his face, yawning, and Kent swallows. “If this is you trying to sabotage me by cutting into my sleep time, that’s low. Even for me.”

“Whatever, Zimms.” He watches as Jack smiles, tiny and almost imperceptible, at the nickname. “Go get your beauty sleep.”

Jack waves instead of saying goodbye, and Kent is left with nothing to look at except a screenshot of his own sleeping face. 

He wonders how long he was out before Jack woke him up. He wonders what Jack was thinking about when he took those screenshots.

“I need to stop being a dumbass and wash my fucking dishes,” he says out loud, and Kit chirps at him in response from where she’s watching him on the floor.

  


  


  


  


* * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


The Aces fall out of the playoffs in the first round. Kent tries not to be a dick about it.

Pretty much all of his teammates head out of town within a couple days of losing, and since Kent tries to avoid his parents’ house as a general rule and no one’s expecting him anywhere for a few days, he figures he might as well accept Jack’s offer to come visit him in Providence.

Jack’s team is still working for a shot at the Cup, so Kent assumes he’s going to stay at a hotel or something. He’s actually in the middle of creeping on the websites of a few really horrible bed and breakfasts in the area, just because he thinks it would be funny, but then Jack tells him to come stay at his apartment instead. 

Kent says yes to that.

The plan is for Kent to only stay for three days, so as soon as he gets there he familiarizes himself with the contents of Jack’s fridge -- disappointing -- and then familiarizes himself with the takeout options in the neighborhood. There’s a Thai place around the block, a couple burger joints that deliver, the standard pizza options, and a little bakery that Kent crosses off his mental list because he pretty much hates the entire concept of pie at this point.

Jack comes home from practice, so tired he’s slumping over and kind of droopy around the eyes, but then he sees the pad thai Kent left out for him and it’s like Christmas all over his face. Kent thinks he made a good choice.

The first night, Kent picks the movie, and they watch fifteen minutes of Transformers before Jack falls asleep. He’s lying down on the couch, his legs sprawled across Kent’s lap, and it’s nice. Kent could sit like this for awhile.

But the movie’s actually not as good as he remembers it, and he starts to feel guilty about letting Jack sleep on the couch, even if it’s a nice couch. “Zimms,” Kent says. He watches Jack’s eyebrows knot up, then relax again. “Jack,” Kent whispers, and he tickles a finger against Jack’s eyelashes.

“The fuck are you doing,” Jack mumbles after a few seconds, curling away from Kent. He’s so cute. It makes Kent really mad sometimes, the way Jack doesn’t seem to know how cute he is every goddamn second of the day.

“You need to sleep in a bed, Zimms,” Kent says. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

Jack obeys immediately, draping one arm around Kent’s shoulders as Kent leads him towards Jack’s bedroom. He grumbles wordlessly against the side of Kent’s head, and Kent chuckles like it didn’t send goosebumps all the way down his neck.

“Here you are, dude,” Kent says. He nudges Jack onto the bed. He doesn’t know if Jack needs to change out of the t-shirt and sweatpants he’s been lounging in all night, or if he wants to brush his teeth or wash his face or whatever, but Jack can take care of that himself if he really wants to. 

Jack rolls onto his side, facing Kent. “Are you mad we didn’t finish your movie?”

“So mad.”

Jack’s eyes crinkle when he smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one final warning for unprotected sex!! ahh!!!!

Kent sleeps in the next day, and he tries to go for a jog but ends up buying a bunch of novelty shot glasses instead. Whatever.

He watches Jack’s game alone in Jack’s apartment. He could have gone out to watch it in a sports bar, maybe, except that would be a terrible idea. Jack offered to get him a spot with Jack’s college friends who are there in the Falconers’ arena tonight, but Kent didn’t like that concept much either.

Anyway, it’s better for everyone if Kent stays in. The less he goes outside, the less likely he is to get papped, and now that Jack’s out it would be kind of a career nightmare to get caught staying at his place.

He can watch the game in Jack’s living room. It feels kind of weird, like Kent broke into Jack’s apartment or something, but at the same time it’s nice. Cozy.

If Jack wins, he gets a few rest days while they wait to see which team the Falconers will play next. If he loses, he’s catching a plane out to Pittsburgh tomorrow night to continue the series. Kent hopes Jack wins, even though he’s scheduled to head off to Ottawa to hang with Troy tomorrow either way.

Jack wins, and Kent throws a lot of popcorn in the air in celebration. He doesn’t clean up after himself. 

They interview Jack after the game, and he only stumbles over his words a little bit. Jack’s accent is in full effect and he smiles a little at the camera. No one asks him about Bittle anymore. Kent’s really fucking happy for him.

Jack comes back to his place a lot earlier than Kent expected, although in hindsight he should have known Jack isn’t the kind of guy to stay out late partying with his team anymore.

He doesn’t ask about the popcorn, just stands in the doorway measuring Kent’s expression for a moment. He stalks across the room and grabs the front of Kent’s shirt, pinning him against the wall. “Yeah?” Jack says, breath hot and totally sober against Kent’s face. 

His eyes are burning Kent’s skin. Kent can feel himself shaking. He nods. 

“God,” Jack says, so quiet Kent can barely hear it before Jack is biting at his neck.

Jack turns Kent around and keeps his mouth on Kent’s neck. It feels so good, especially with the way Jack’s grinding against Kent’s ass, and Kent’s breath is coming so hard that he can’t really stop himself from whimpering a little. He’d be embarrassed, but he can hear the way Jack starts panting in his ear in response, so everything’s cool.

When Jack starts pulling down the back of Kent’s pants, one hand slipping inside to tease against Kent’s bare skin, Kent blacks out for a little bit before he gets his brain back online. “We don’t have to fuck against the wall,” he manages to get out.

“Why can’t we?” Jack’s voice is a whine in Kent’s ear. 

Kent arches back against where he can feel Jack’s dick and lets out a shaky breath. He sees stars again for a few seconds. There’s a stupid, _huge_ part of his brain that’s telling him _Give Jack whatever he wants, he’s the best, he’s a **winner,**_ but Kent thinks he’ll be sore for days if he lets Jack fuck him like this.

“I want you in a bed,” Kent finally says, managing to sound confident instead of like he’s begging, and he practically trips out of his pants as he races Jack to the guest room.

Jack gets him lying face down, and Kent props his knees up under himself. He buries his face in the bedsheets and breathes in. He wishes they were fucking in Jack’s bed, because he wants to be surrounded in Jack’s scent while Jack’s inside him, but this works too. 

He doesn’t know how many fingers Jack has in him when Jack’s other hand traces up Kent’s back, stopping at his shoulder blade. “Hey, I brought -- do you want me to grab a condom? I’m good either way.”

Kent stops moaning so he can answer, which is kind of the first time he’s aware that he was moaning at all. “This is good,” he says hoarsely, and this time he _is_ vaguely embarrassed by the noise he makes when Jack pushes in.

It’s been almost eight years since the last time Kent let Jack in like this, but he doesn’t really think about that at all. He’s mostly just thinking about how hot Jack is, how big and strong he is, how -- “Mmm,” Kent says. “You were so good tonight. You played so good tonight. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this ever since you got that assist, you were the best one out there, so fucking good --”

Jack blows his load when he’s only been in Kent for, like, thirty seconds, so maybe Kent should have thought about how Jack’s reacted in the past to dirty hockey talk before going there. 

But it’s good. Kent is kind of blissed out, settling himself down as Jack rolls off to the side. Kent reaches back to feel some of Jack’s come dripping out of him. He just wants to feel it, and then he wipes it on the sheets even though he has to sleep here tonight. Now that it’s over Kent feels a little empty, but it’s still good. “Mm,” Kent says. “Baller.”

Next to him, Jack snorts. It shouldn’t be one of Kent’s favorite sounds anymore, but c’est la vie and all that. They’re silent, and Kent’s eyes start to get heavy. He knows it’ll hurt tomorrow, and his chest is starting to ache _now_ , but he can’t really be anything but content when Jack’s lying down next to him. He can feel the warmth radiating off of Jack’s body, even though they’re not touching anymore, and Kent could fall asleep like this.

“Is it my job to clean us up?” Jack asks, in this hopeful voice like he thinks Kent will be the one to get up just because Jack won a hockey game.

“Yeah.”

“Fine,” Jack says. He makes a big show of jostling Kent as he climbs out of bed. “Do you have an alarm set for tomorrow? Your flight leaves kind of early, right?”

“Noon isn’t early,” Kent says, watching Jack’s naked, glorious ass as he walks across the room.

Jack smirks at him, his nostrils flaring out like they always do when he’s trying not to laugh. He looks so dumb, and Kent loves it. “Early for you.”

Kent stretches out on top of the sheets and rolls his eyes. Jack disappears into the bathroom, and when he’s gone Kent just feels cold. 

He knows a mistake when he makes one. He’s had plenty of fucking practice with that, and Kent knows this whole thing is a mistake. The problem is that he doesn’t give a shit.

“Hurry up in there,” Kent yells, and he laughs when he hears Jack swear at him in French. “I’m getting crusty.”

Jack groans, and Kent starts to feel warm again.

  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent wakes up feeling sore and with a plate of bacon under his nose. He’s pretty happy about both of these things.

“Aw, thanks,” he says. Jack’s standing over him with the bright light of the window streaming in behind him, and it sort of makes him look like an angel. Which is absolute bullshit, but still cute.

Jack pulls the plate back for a second. “You’re not eating breakfast in bed. I don’t want to clean up when you spill.”

“You’re gonna have to wash the sheets anyway,” Kent points out. 

“My bed, my rules.”

Kent puts on some pants and, after thinking about it, a shirt. He joins Jack in the kitchen and sits down to a glass of orange juice that’s already on the table for him. Jack adds a couple pancakes to Kent’s plate and hands it over. It’s all very wholesome.

Because Jack is an asshole, he waits until Kent has his mouth full before he starts talking. “I was thinking that since we’ve fucked twice we should talk, eh?”

Kent keeps chewing his food. He shoots Jack an annoyed look and tries not to panic.

“Like.” Jack leans back, his chair scraping across the floor, and exhales. He’s nervous, Kent can tell, but Kent’s not gonna feel bad for him until he at least knows where this is going. “I guess what I need to do is spell out what I want. And then you can tell me what you want. And we can go from there.”

Kent finally swallows his food, but he just shovels down another forkful of bacon and gestures for Jack to continue. 

“Oh. Uh, I want to be friends with you. That’s important to me. But, you know, we also have good sex. If we can stay friends and also have fun once in awhile, that would be ideal, I guess?”

Jack looks like he might die if Kent doesn’t give him something, so Kent presses their feet together under the table, just for a moment, and tries to figure out what to even say. “Well, yeah. I want to be friends too. If I can be on your dick at the same time, sweet. Are you saying like a friends with benefits thing?”

“Well, I don’t like that phrase,” Jack says, but he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I just think we’re friends, but sometimes we hook up because we know we’re good at it. But the friends part comes first, to me. We’re not a totally new, different type of friend now, right?”

“No, I guess not.” _**Doesn’t like that phrase** , what a tool,_ Kent thinks fondly. “Although I don’t think you’ve ever made breakfast for me before, so I guess we kind of are a new type of friend, eh, Zimms?”

Jack furrows his eyebrows a little. “No, that’s just because I never _see_ you. But is it okay? I know -- you know. In the past. You’re okay with this?”

It’s a very delicate way of saying _you used to be a clingy, obsessive freak in total denial of my indifference to you,_ but Kent appreciates the subtlety. He also appreciates that he _has_ changed, that even if he’s still in love with Jack, now it feels like something warm and good inside him, not like something desperate and sad that makes him crazy. 

“I’m good,” Kent says. “Thank you for asking. Are there more pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and actually gets up to make Kent another one. Kent didn’t expect that. “I just -- I’m trying to be more selfish now, in a positive way, if that makes sense. But I don’t want to hurt you or ignore how you’re feeling. But you’re liking this? It’s fun for you?”

Kent entertains the idea of proving exactly how fun it is by getting on his knees and blowing Jack in the kitchen right then and there, but he thinks Jack would let the pancake burn. Plus Kent isn’t sure he could handle it, being with Jack like that in the light of day and still talking with him all normal and meeting his eyes for the rest of the morning. 

So. “It’s all good, Jack. And after I eat this last pancake, you’re driving me to the airport, right?”

Jack sighs, but he’s smiling almost immediately, like he can’t contain it. “Sure, Parse.”

When Jack sets the pancake down on Kent’s plate, it’s absolutely perfect. Kent feels too much, suddenly, like he needs to grab Jack by the wrist and just _smell_ him or something before he goes away, but he acts like a regular fucking person instead. “Wanna Skype with Kit before I leave?”

Jack flicks Kent on the back of the head as he walks past him. “No.” 

Kent smiles down at his plate. It could be like this, he thinks, if they were -- it would be even better, because all the love he’s feeling could go out to Jack instead of pooling up inside him. And Jack would have love to give him back, love that takes the shape of something bigger than pancakes and smiles and sex.

That would be nice.

Kent finishes his breakfast, but it’s hard to taste it around the lump in his throat.

  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent chills in Ottawa with the Troy family for awhile. They all find him very charming, which he milks as much as he can because it’s funny to see the look on Troy’s face when Troy’s grandmother calls Kent a “delight”.

His cat-sitter has a birthday while Kent’s in Ottawa, so he sends her a thousand-dollar bonus.

The Falconers lose the Eastern Conference Finals, and Kent sends Jack a text that he hopes is consoling, plus an Aces jersey in the mail with a note that says, _Now you can get ready to cheer for next year’s champions. Vegas baby!!!_

He figures that, by the time it arrives, Jack will be ready to have a sense of humor about it.

Kent’s one of the only guys on the team who actually lives in Vegas year-round, and after he does a few charity events to prove that he’s still all about the city even though the season’s over, he settles into a routine of training, texting his teammates, playing with Kit, and training some more.

He texts Jack, too. That’s part of his routine now.

It’s half-past seven in Vegas, 10:30 P.M. in Providence, and Jack is FaceTiming him. Kent had told a crazy story from his rookie year, and Jack had used his dangerous active listening skills to get Kent to tell him more about what it had been like for Kent back then, and now Kent’s feeling kind of small and embarrassed. Talking about those days has a tendency to do that, for reasons that are sort of about Jack but mostly not.

He’s playing it off pretty well, though, turning the conversation around and getting Jack to talk about all the weird artsy movies he’s seen lately. 

“I never would have guessed you’d be the guy to go see shit like that, Zimms,” Kent says. He loves teasing Jack. It barely takes anything to get a smile or a flush, these days.

“Yeah,” Jack says, his blush deepening. “I, uh, I pretty much hated all of them. I just wanted to expand my horizons.”

Kent snorts at that, _expand my horizons,_ and then he’s laughing at Jack in earnest, totally helpless with it and loving the sound of Jack complaining on the other end of the line. Kent’s laughter is cut off by the sound of a new message coming in.

“Stop texting me while we’re already talking,” Kent says when he sees it’s from Jack. “Goddamn millennial.”

He opens the message and it’s -- it’s a dick pic. It’s the most beautiful dick pic Kent’s seen in his life, which is not at all objective considering he’s in love with the dude this particular dick is attached to, but holy fuck. Kent is going to die.

“Nice, Zimms,” he says. Clears his throat. “You sit around and find your best angles? Did all those photography classes help you with this one?”

Jack is blushing again, but he looks pleased with himself. “So it’s good, eh?”

Fucking Canadians. Kent rolls his eyes and opens the picture again. He probably should delete it so it’s not, like, permanently on his phone where anyone could find it, but throwing this away would be a crime against humanity. Maybe Kent could print it out and hide it in his sock drawer like he used to do with a photo of that guy who played Superman on Smallville. He feels like he’s thirteen again, anyway. “Jack Zimmermann sending dick pics. I can’t believe this. I’m embarrassed for you, Zimms.”

“Oh, you’re embarrassed for me?” Jack asks, all smug. “It looks more like you’re staring. I think your mouth hasn’t completely shut in the last two minutes.” He looks way too happy with himself. 

Kent resists the urge to cover his face. “Shut up.”

“I think your pupils are a little dilated. I had no idea my dick was that good.” Jack starts laughing. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed. I’m sure my dick is great.”

“Whatever, shut up,” Kent says, and this time he can’t really stop himself from hiding his face.

  


  


  


  


* * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


Three weeks before preseason starts, Jack texts Kent to check if he can swing by.

He says it like that too. _Swing by._

 _ok bro,_ Kent sends back. Jack shows up two days later.

He gets there late in the evening, so Kent just feeds him dinner and sends him to the guest room to sleep off the time difference. When it’s quiet in Kent’s house, he sits at the kitchen counter, petting Kit’s belly and messing around on his phone to distract himself. He takes a Buzzfeed quiz to find out which Bratz doll he is. (He gets Cloe, which means he’s ethereal and down to earth. He doesn’t think it’s a super accurate quiz, but at least he’s still blonde.)

Kent waits for a solid half hour before he caves and texts Troy.

  


  


**Kent** 10:04 pm  
guess who’s in my house

 **Troy** 10:06 pm  
What the fuck did you do now

 **Kent** 10:06 pm  
???? who says i did anything?

 **Troy** 10:07 pm  
Who’s in your house Parse

 **Kent** 10:07 pm  
jack zimmermann *eyes emoji*

**Incoming call from Troy**

  


“Oh boy,” Kent says in lieu of a greeting. “Calm your titties, Troy. In advance.”

Troy is silent for a long moment. “Where is he? Right now?”

“He’s sleeping. He’s in the guest room. Don’t come over here.”

“Why would I come over there?”

“You sounded like you wanted his location so you could beat him up, I don’t know!” Kent runs a hand through his hair roughly. “Everything’s fine. I don’t know why I told you, I just was freaking out for like two seconds because it’s weird that he’s here. But it’s fine.”

Troy laughs. He doesn’t sound very amused. “Sure.”

“Don’t tell Scraps.”

“I won’t. I don’t know what you think he would do, but sure. I won’t.”

Kent feels like finishing off the bottle of wine in the fridge and then going straight to bed. He’s already starting to think about what he and Jack might do tomorrow -- but he can’t think about that now. “Cool. I’m going to bed. How are you?”

“I’m good, Parse.”

“Okay. Good.” Kent takes a deep breath. Everything is fine. “Good night.”

He decides to save the wine. He might need it more tomorrow.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent knows he fucked up when Jack wakes him at eight A.M. the next morning, opening the blinds in Kent’s bedroom and staring down at him unrepentantly. 

“I’ll kill you,” Kent croaks, and he smushes his pillow down over his face.

The bed bounces a little when Jack sits down. “I was looking online and I saw there’s this place down the street where we can get pancakes shaped like our names? But only if we get there before nine.”

That does sound pretty cool. “What place? I live here. I don’t know anything about this.”

Jack gently takes the pillow off Kent’s face. “It’s called Lucy’s. They do breakfast all day, but the name thing is for early birds only. Let’s go.”

“Sweet.” He thinks he knows where that is. Kent pushes at Jack with his knee to get him to move, but Jack doesn’t budge. “I’m in. I can shower quick and then we’ll go.”

Jack still hasn’t moved. “Hey, do you sleep naked under there?” He’s gotta be asking because Kent is clearly shirtless, and he pulls teasingly at the covers. “Or do you sleep in those ugly flannel pants still?”

It’s stupid, the way Kent’s heart goes warm at the fact that Jack remembers those awful pajama pants Kent always wore back in Juniors. Whatever. “I do sleep naked,” Kent says conversationally instead of letting himself continue that train of thought. “It gets hot as fuck here.”

That’s not really true. Kent normally sleeps shirtless in a pair of basketball shorts, but he slept naked last night because he’d sort of had visions of surprise morning sex.

Now that it’s morning, he feels kind of shy about that. He’d like things to stay friendly for most of the day. Probably.

“Pretty sexy, Parse,” Jack says, smacking Kent lightly on the chest before getting up. “Meet you in fifteen? If you even know how to take a shower that short, ha.”

Kent flips Jack the double-bird and waits until he’s alone to get out of bed. He’s got a nice bathroom connected to his room, and he washes off methodically, trying not to think about the possibility that Jack will be joining him in here at some point during the next --

Well. He doesn’t actually know how long Jack’s staying.

“Jack,” Kent yells when he’s all done, walking out into the living room in shorts and a hoodie. His hair is still wet, and he doesn’t want to be cold. “How long are you planning on sticking around, anyway?”

Jack looks up. “Probably four days? Or is that too long?”

“No, baby, just long enough.” Kent leers a little as Jack groans, and they head out together. Kent doesn’t really ever have problems with people taking pictures of him in his own neighborhood, because he’s not the one who came out, but he’s more paranoid than usual now that Jack’s here. He can’t stop checking to see if people are looking at them while they’re out on the street, but he doesn’t really see anything suspicous.

They get a nice booth toward the back, and the service is pretty fast. Since each of their names has four letters, they decide to make a competition out of who can finish their pancakes first. Jack tries to, like, measure the exact surface area of their pancakes to see who has the advantage, but Kent eats half of his K before Jack can get to it.

“Eat your food, dumbass,” Kent says when Jack scowls at him. Jack wins anyway, and he lets out a celebratory burp that has Kent absolutely dissolving in laughter, to the extent that Jack’s the one embarrassed in the end. So -- victory.

When Kent finally gets himself under control, Jack is shaking his head. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Wanna split dessert?”

Jack’s eyes are really pretty in this light, even when he’s giving Kent a judgmental look. “We’re not getting dessert for breakfast, Kenny. Show some goddamn restraint.”

Kent glares at him for a moment, and then they both crack up laughing. 

“But seriously,” Jack says, eventually. “No dessert.” 

Kent can’t convince Jack to change his mind, but he does at least get Jack to pay the bill.

  


  


  


Jack badgers Kent into giving him a tour of Vegas “from a local’s perspective”, so Kent takes him to a bunch of horrible schmaltzy shops and one place where you can get a bong shaped like a dick.

“You are the worst,” Jack tells him for the sixth time that day, sitting close to Kent on a bench where they’re watching a dude dressed like one of the Founding Fathers sing “Tik Tok”.

“Hmm,” Kent says. He can feel Jack’s leg pressed right against him, warm and solid. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Jack looks over at him, eyes wide. Kent leans into him for a second.

  


  


  


  


It’s kind of surprising when they get back to Kent’s place and Jack immediately sinks to his knees in front of Kent, just seconds after Kent’s closed the door behind them. It’s even more surprising when Jack swallows, and Kent kind of blacks out for a good five seconds. He wonders if Jack was mostly turned on by his Porsche.

“Jack,” he says when he can breathe again. “Zimms. Can -- can you?”

Jack looks up at him. Shit, those beautiful eyes. “You want me to clean you up?”

There isn’t much to clean at this point. Kent’s fingers pinch into Jack’s shoulders. “No, I want you to -- to fuck me.”

Jack does what Kent tells him, and then Kent does what Jack tells him, and then when they’re both ready to go again, Kent blows Jack in the shower just to prove that he’s better at it than Jack is.

“It’s not like I can know for sure,” Jack says when they’re toweling off. “I can’t compare. It’s physically impossible for me to blow myself.”

“Yeah?” Kent snaps his towel at Jack. “Why don’t you try?”

Jack wrestles him up against the door then, his front pressed against Kent’s back. Kent only fights back a little, and they both laugh when their bare feet slide on the floor. There’s a towel between them, so it’s not as sexy as it could be. Kent grinds his ass back anyway, and Jack laughs against his neck. “I’m gonna make dinner. Do you have leftovers, or should I whip something up?”

Kent hates that Jack’s become the kind of person who uses the phrase _whip something up._ It feels like a Bittle thing. “There’s stir fry in the fridge,” is all he says, and he’s left dripping and a little cold when Jack steps out of the bathroom.

It turns out that nothing is worse than sitting on a different couch from the man you love, who is also fucking you, who actually just got _done_ fucking you, but who doesn’t love you back. Kent sits down first, and Jack takes the other couch, so that’s that. Even Kit seems uninterested in Kent right now, preferring to sit in the doorway and stare at them.

“My turn,” Jack says when Kent suggests they watch something. “Let’s see if I can find something better than Transformers. You’ve set the bar high, Parse.” Jack picks The Grand Budapest Hotel, which Kent enjoys until the cat dies.

Kents hams up his sadness just to be dramatic, and Jack actually looks worried about him, so Kent figures this is as decent an opportunity to cuddle as he’ll ever get. “You pick stupid movies,” he mumbles, giving Jack the most outrageous puppy-dog eyes he can until Jack sighs and pauses the movie.

“You want me to come over there?”

Kent shrugs.

“Are you gonna stop whining if I come over there?”

Kent smiles and pats the cushion next to him.

Jack lies down next to him on the couch, spooning him from behind, and Kent closes his eyes. He’s not, like, super pathetic, but he isn’t above imagining that Jack is his boyfriend and that this is a normal night for them. Just for a few seconds. 

It’s nice to be close like this, anyway, and not have it just be for sex. That Jack likes him enough to snuggle with him without -- oh, well, now Jack’s starting to grope his ass, so Kent has to abandon that one.

After a few seconds of feeling rejected -- which is stupid, this is what Jack’s _here_ for -- Kent relaxes into it and starts rolling his hips back, sighing a little when Jack’s hands squeeze around him. He loves Jack’s hands. He loves when Jack touches him. 

Eventually, Jack pulls Kent’s sweatpants down, pulling them all the way off Kent’s body. He grabs a throw pillow to wedge under Kent’s hips and fucks him long and slow on the couch. They’ve both gone so many times today that it feels like a lifetime before Jack finishes. Kent’s close by then, and he’s such a mess that he can feel the muscles in his face shaking. His scalp hurts where Jack’s been pulling at his hair. He doesn’t even know what sound he’s making, but Jack goes harder when he hears it, so it must be good. Kent’s aware of this, all of this, but it’s like there’s a veil between his brain and the rest of the world. Everything’s cloudy, fuzzy. 

“No,” Kent mumbles when Jack pulls out. His tongue feels numb, far away. “More, more.”

“I can’t,” Jack says. He sounds -- gasping, like he’s short of breath. But he shoves his fingers into Kent and fucks him that way instead.

Kent thinks the sound he’s making is sobbing, now. He _loves_ Jack’s hands. He’s spent a lot of time, mostly when they were teenagers, staring at Jack’s hands, grabbing them, kissing them, surging up into them when Jack finally put them on Kent’s body where they belonged.

He doesn’t know why it feels so much more special to have Jack’s fingers in him than Jack’s dick, but it _does_ , it feels like Jack’s choosing him, and Kent’s whole body seizes up a few times when he finishes. 

Kent comes back to himself slowly. It takes awhile for his pulse to stop pounding in his head. 

The silence stretches out, slow and warm around him. “That was good,” Jack finally says. His mouth is pressed up against Kent’s hip, and he stays there, breathing against Kent’s skin for a few seconds before he gets up and walks away. Kent assumes he’s getting something to wipe all the nastiness off of Kent.

He’s still shaking, a little. It’s hard to stop. He wants more.

Jack comes back, damp washcloth in hand. Kent waits until he’s clean, turning easily to let Jack get every inch. “Hey,” Kent finally says, tugging at Jack until he sits down again. “Thanks. That was fun.”

“Yeah, Parse,” Jack laughs, smoothing back Kent’s cowlick a little. “That was -- yeah. Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Kent agrees.

By the time Kent stumbles off to bed, his whole brain is fried, and he keeps thinking about Jack sleeping in a different room. He can’t stop shaking, and his chest feels like it’s being attacked by knives or some shit. 

He wants more. More Jack, on every inch of his skin, and under his skin. He thinks they could fuck a million times -- well, not literally, because then Kent would probably die -- and he would still want more. The sex isn’t what he wants, and as soon as he thinks that Kent tells himself to stop thinking at all, because _no_. 

He goes to get a drink of water, some time past two in the morning, and when he pauses in the hallway he can hear Jack’s quiet snoring. It’s the first time all night Kent feels settled, and he stands there listening for another few minutes until he feels creepy and goes back to his own room.

  


  


  


  


Jack only stays for three more days, not four, because he doesn’t like working with Kent’s trainer and he doesn’t want to slack off right before preseason. Kent doesn’t want him to leave, but it hurts having him around. So -- maybe it’s the worst of both worlds. Kent’s grateful anyway. 

They don’t really talk about it, but after that first full day they approach sex at a more normal pace. Jack sneaks into Kent’s room that next morning and blows him under the covers while Kent squirms and makes stupid noises. Kent fucks Jack against the kitchen counter in the evening, feeling a little smug every time he pushes a grunt out of Jack’s lungs.

Mostly they just hang out -- a few people got pictures of them in the city together that first day, and now Kent is too freaked out to suggest they do anything that would require leaving the house. So they play video games, and Kent dominates in every single one. 

“It’s because you play these all the time,” Jack says, throwing his controller down. “You have more practice.”

“Whatever, Zimms, I barely touch ‘em. I have a life.”

Jack brought a book with him, which Kent finds a little insulting. He goes to the window seat after lunch and reads for an hour, ignoring Kent when he asks if Jack’s just tired of losing. Kit squeezes in next to him and stays by his side as long as he doesn’t touch her. 

“Lemme see that,” Kent says, later, and grabs at the book so he can look at the cover. It’s called _Capital_ and Kent can already tell that it’s about, like, geography or history or money. Something boring. “Can’t believe you’re just sitting around reading. Go back to college, nerd.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows at Kent. “Have you ever finished a book? In your life?’

“Yeah,” Kent says. He used to read to his little sister. Those American Girl books, he thinks. 

“Have you read a book since you graduated high school?”

Kent flips Jack off, and Jack smirks in victory and goes back to reading. Like Kent should feel bad for not being a nerd. Whatever.

  


  


That night, they drink this weird tea that Jack brought with him and sit out on the balcony. Kent can’t focus at first, scanning for paps in the bushes even though he knows it’s unlikely, but he settles down eventually. The tea probably helps with that, not that he’s going to tell Jack.

“You doing okay?” Jack asks him. They’ve been out here for awhile. 

Kent isn’t sure what Jack’s talking about, exactly. “Yeah?” He racks his brain. “You mean from -- the other day? Sure, dude, I’m not that fragile.”

Jack stammers for a few moments. “No -- I mean -- Kent. You get this look on your face like you’re entering a warzone every time we go outside. I thought you were going to tackle me when I stepped out to take that call from my mom.”

“The reception’s fine in here,” Kent mumbles.

“Kenny,” Jack says. It’s so gentle; Kent wishes he could lean into him. “Is it causing a problem for you to have me here? Because I didn’t even stop to think of that when I came. I wasn’t thinking.”

Kent blinks, then scoots in closer to Jack. “Hey. Zimms. That’s not a thing. I like having you here.”

Jack shrugs, avoiding Kent’s eyes, but he leans in closer too.

“But yeah, I’m not out. And I know that people seeing you’re here is gonna stir up some rumors. But before you leave town, you, me, and Troy can all go out together, and that’ll help.” Kent stares up at the sky. The stars are nice here, whatever Troy might say to the contrary when he gets all superior and outdoorsy just because he likes camping. Hell of a lot better than they are in New York, anyway. “You’ve gotta tell me how you’re doing, though. I mean, you’re the one who’s out. You’re the one they want pictures of. How has it -- I dunno, how has it been?”

Jack doesn’t answer for awhile. Kent lets him finish the tea. Finally, Jack sighs. “I don’t know. Kind of shitty. Kind of good. Sometimes I feel like I can breathe better.”

“That’s good, Jack.” Kent can’t tell if Jack thinks it’s actually good. He knows he shouldn’t bring up Bittle. He’s _not_ going to bring up Bittle. “Is it -- do you regret it? Doing it the way you did? I mean, you know.”

Jack puts the mug of tea down, hard. “It’s --” He sighs. “Parse. Of course I do. I did something I can never take back, and I didn’t even do it for myself. I did it for him, and now I don’t have him anymore. Do you know how stupid that makes me feel?”

Kent looks down. He doesn’t know what to say, at least not using just his words.

“But I can’t regret it completely.” Jack waits until Kent is looking him in the eye. “Yes, I wish I did it for myself. Under better circumstances, in a way that doesn’t make me a joke now that Eric and I broke up. But I’m free now. Everything I was scared of revealing is out there, and I still have my career. Sure, sometimes it’s rough on the ice, but my whole team has my back. The media mostly plays nice, apart from the breakup, but that was inevitable. I can breathe, Parse.”

Unspoken is the question -- does Kent want the same thing for himself? 

“That’s good, Jack,” Kent says. “I’m happy for you.”

Jack snorts, and the mood is lighter again. “Yeah, okay. I’m happy for me too, apart from when people with cameras wait outside my building or when tabloids do -- what they do.”

“Oh yeah. I think I saw one recently? They said you were proof not all gay guys know how to dress themselves. Kinda shitty, and not even, like, the right word, but in their defense you _were_ wearing black with blue. Come on, Zimms.”

They both laugh, shoulders bumping. Jack nudges Kent. “I guess what I’m really learning is that I need some time now where I just -- do what I want. I gave away something so huge, so important. I don’t regret it, I really don’t, but I think I deserve to be selfish now.”

Kent thinks about Jack, all alone, the only out player in the entire history of the NHL. “Yeah, Zimms. You do.”

“I figure if I take some time to be selfish, to focus on what makes me happy without being obligated to someone else or --” Jack shrugs, self-conscious. “I don’t know. I just need to get better at communicating. And being brutally honest, especially with myself. Did you know, I didn’t even realize I wasn’t coming out for myself until months after it happened? I need to work on that. Telling myself the truth instead of what I think the truth should be.”

“You have time to figure it out,” Kent says. “There isn’t a deadline. And I think you’re doing great.”

Jack smiles at him. It’s a real smile, but it’s small. He looks exhausted. 

Kent shifts a little bit closer. “One more round of tea and then bed?” 

“Okay,” Jack says. “Only -- can we stay up a little longer? I don’t want to go to sleep yet.”

“Sure, Zimms.” Kent hugs him when they stand up. It’s a friend hug. It’s nice. Kent wishes with every stupid atom in his body that he could bury his face in Jack’s neck, that he could kiss Jack’s jawline and pet back his hair to make him feel better. He wishes he could hold on for as long as he wanted.

He lets go. “You wanna play a card game or something?”

Jack takes Kent’s empty mug, and their hands brush for half a second. “Yeah,” Jack says. “And, Kenny.” 

Kent looks at him.

“Thank you. For listening.”

“It’s cool,” Kent says. “Now how ‘bout I kick your ass at Uno?”

Jack laughs, a quiet rumble that settles under Kent’s skin. “Give it your best shot, Parse.”


	3. Chapter 3

On Jack’s last day in Vegas, Kent gets Troy to join them in public for breakfast so it looks like Jack isn’t hanging out with just Kent, and it pays off right away when a fan asks for a picture with all three of them.

“Oh, of course,” Kent replies magnanimously when she asks if she can share the picture on social media. He’d had the foresight to sit by himself on one side of the booth while Jack and Troy sit on the other so that no one can look at them and think he and Jack are on, like, a date.

It’s really not very fun, because Troy is super frigid and unfriendly the whole time, but Kent tries to make up for it by talking about the dumb pranks their team pulled back in Juniors, and soon he and Jack are talking a mile a minute -- laughing so hard that Kent is smugly proud to see Jack wiping tears from his eyes -- for a really fucking long time before they even remember that Troy is still there.

“Sorry, man,” Kent says, stuttering a little over his own laughter. “I guess you had to be there.”

Troy shoots him a withering look, and Kent covers his face with his hands as Jack starts laughing again.

  


  


  


Jack cancels his flight and books one later in the evening so they can fuck one more time. 

After, the room is illuminated in a warm, golden light as the sun moves toward setting. Jack looks good, Kent thinks. They’re sprawled out on Kent’s bed, naked and unashamed like Adam and Steve in the Garden of Eden, and Kent gets to run his hands over Jack’s body and rub the sweat off him. He grins when Jack blushes at that, and it’s pretty much torture not to be able to nose against Jack’s face and be cute with him to help Jack get over his embarrassment.

But Kent has a naked Jack Zimmermann in his bed in the year of our Lord 2017, so he can deal.

Jack leaves a couple hours later, and Troy texts Kent, demanding he go out to lunch with Troy and Scraps the next day. Kent knows life is going to go on, same as it always has, but he wants every day to be full of Jack. Three days wasn’t enough.

  


  


  


Kent joins Troy and Scrappy the next day at a place that Troy picked. It’s nice, kind of small but with a floor plan that gives them plenty of privacy. Kent orders a spinach and artichoke sandwich and purposely mispronounces the word “artichoke” so he can see the look on Troy’s face. It’s his newest tactic for ruining Troy’s life, and it works like a charm.

“I don’t think that’s how you say it,” Scrappy ventures. “It’s more like --” 

“Kent knows how to say it,” Troy says. “He’s just being a pain in the ass.”

“I’m being a what, now?”

Troy gives Kent his patented _you’re a trial on my patience_ look. “Shut up, Parser.”

“Okee-dokee.”

Scrappy laughs, and Troy leans back in his chair. “Or we can talk about why you spent the last week holed up with Jack Zimmermann in your apartment. We can talk about _that_ if you want.”

Kent is torn between kicking Troy under the table and coming up with a terrible play on the phrase _holed up_. “Traitor.”

“You did…?” Scrappy looks worried, fuck. “Is that --? Are you and him --?”

“It wasn’t even a week. It was, like, a few days.”

Troy takes a drink of his ice water. He looks at Kent, clearly waiting.

“No. We’re not dating or whatever. We’re just, like, hooking up as friends. For old times’ sake. It’s chill.”

“Oh.” Scrappy folds his napkin over nervously. “Okay. I support you, Parse. Just so you know.”

“I don’t support you at all,” Troy says. “Well. Like. I support you. But I don’t support you fucking Jack Zimmermann. That’s just a terrible idea.”

“Don’t be a dick, Troy,” Kent says. “Scrappy is the only real ally on this team.”

Scrappy blushes a little, then turns to Troy. “Why is it a bad idea?”

“Because Parse is hopelessly in love with him and has been for, what, eight years now? You’re gonna need so much therapy after this, bro.”

“Shut up.” Kent doesn’t mention that he’s already been in therapy for a few years. Whatever.

Kent is saved from further interrogation when their food arrives. It isn’t until they’ve been eating for several minutes that Troy speaks up again. “Seriously, Parse. I know you’re a smart guy, but like ninety-percent of the dumb shit I’ve seen you do was related to Zimmermann in some way. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Kent eats more of his sandwich to avoid answering.

“Like, not ragging on you or anything. Be careful.”

Scrappy puts a hand on Kent’s arm where it’s draped over the table. “Parser. Um. You deserve to be with someone who wants to be with you, you know? Yeah.”

What the fuck. Kent just wants to eat lunch. He widens his eyes a little and tries to keep from tearing up. “Yeah. Cool. Thanks, Scraps.”

Troy lays off after that, and it’s pretty quiet. Scrappy moves his hand off Kent’s arm. Kent feels kind of jumpy, and eats his food really fast so he’ll have something to do. Troy eventually gives him half of his kettle chips, and when they pay the bill and walk down the street to where they’re parked, Troy gives Kent a quick hug. 

“See ya, Parse. Keep workin’ on that drop pass before the season starts.”

“Ha, ha,” Kent grumbles. It’s still a sensitive fucking subject after one of the goals-against in their last playoff game came after a turnover on Kent’s failed drop pass. “Keep working on not being an asshole.”

Troy pats him on the back. “Love you, dude.” He gets into his car, and Kent is kind of floored.

  


  


  


  


  


  


Preseason starts. Things are looking up, Kent thinks -- their starting goalie is back to full health, and the back-up goalies are doing a lot better than the last time he saw them. The new call-ups seem bright and eager-to-please, too, which Kent likes.

Kent tells the press that he’s expecting a great season and a spot in the playoffs, just like he does at the start of every preseason, but he means it. Even though a solid 80% of the boys are idiots, he believes in them. 

One reporter brings up the fact that Jack visited Kent over the summer. He knows the pictures are out there on social media, but he thinks asking about it now is kind of overkill. 

“It’s always nice to keep in touch with guys from the Q,” Kent says. He feels like his voice has more affect than he normally goes for in these interviews, but he’s nervous. “I try to see as many of them as I can in the off-season. Nice to catch up, you know, but it’s always exciting when the season starts back up. We’re ready to start things off with a win this year.”

Another reporter bounces off that and starts asking Kent about their upcoming game against the Kings. So. He’s got this media thing down.

“I had to talk about Zimmermann, like, twice,” Troy says later. “Why the fuck did I agree to go out with you guys?”

“Because you love me,” Kent says, and Troy hits him.

  


  


  


  


Providence hosts this big charity benefit for You Can Play and local LGBTQ organizations, and Jack invites Kent.

Technically, the Hockey Is For Everyone ambassadors on every team are invited, even if most won’t show up, but Jack sends Kent a text telling him that he’d better show up, so Kent feels like Jack invited him. And since Jack is the guest of honor, and since it’s still only preseason, Kent figures he can go to show a little support.

Kent decides to wear a boring black suit even though he’s been experimenting with different colors, mostly because the last thing he needs is to look fashionable at a gay event while Jack’s standing next to him. 

He mingles as much as he can so that he isn’t standing by Jack constantly. It’s not just because of the media, or the rumors. He’s paranoid that he’s starting to get too obvious, that Jack will realize what Kent’s feeling and cut things off between them. 

A little space is probably a good thing.

So Kent wanders around the room looking for other things to do. He chats with Lucas Snow. It’s a pretty good time because Snow keeps saying all these passive-aggressive things that Kent pretends not to understand. But then Mashkov lumbers over and glares at Kent, which he thinks is pretty rude considering he flew all the way out here to support Mashkov’s teammate, but Kent gets the message and leaves Snow alone.

He finds a long table where a silent auction’s been set up and places two thousand dollars on a Zimmermann jersey. Partly because it would be cool to fuck Jack wearing just that jersey, but mostly because the money goes to homeless gay kids and he figures he owes them one.

Jack finds him when he’s examining the sushi rolls that are sitting out for guests to pick up. “Having fun?”

“I’ve never had sushi,” Kent says. “Would I like it?”

Jack shrugs, but he puts three different kinds of sushi on Kent’s plate and smirks at him. One of them is so gross that Kent tries to discreetly spit it out, but the other two are delish. Jack laughs at him and helps him find some champagne to wash the nastiness from the bad sushi out of his mouth, and Kent decides that he’s had enough of avoiding Jack for the night.

Later, when there’s only half an hour left before the event is scheduled to wrap up, Jack grabs Kent by the elbow. “I’m supposed to give a speech,” he hisses in Kent’s ear. “Keep feeding me drinks.”

“Dude, you gotta be sober. Just imagine us all in our underwear or whatever.”

Jack gives him a look, and Kent bumps their shoulders together.

A few minutes later, when Georgia Martin calls a toast and Kent hears Jack take a deep breath next to him, it’s everything Kent can do not to reach down and squeeze Jack’s hand. “Go get ‘em, Zimms,” he says under his breath, and Jack meets his eyes for a second before standing up to face the crowd.

“Woo, Zimmboni,” Mashkov says, and a few people shush him. 

“Thank you,” Jack says, and Kent leads the room in polite laughter. “I’m grateful you all could make it here. I’m so -- the entire Falconers organization is so grateful for your generosity tonight, and for your commitment to giving in the future. Over the past year, I’ve been amazed by the support I’ve received from my team, the fans, You Can Play, and from the National Hockey League itself.” He clears his throat. “Uh. And. I am excited for what we all can do together to continue making hockey safe and inclusive for all players. Thank you.”

Jack smiles awkwardly while they all clap for him, and then there are a few more speeches, from the You Can Play representative, and the Falconers’ owner, and the director of a local LGBTQ community center. Jack is pretty much catatonic for all of it now that his speech is over, but Kent gives him the last of his cheesecake, which seems to cheer Jack up. 

“Hey,” Jack says softly, leaning close to Kent so no one else can hear. “Come to my place afterward?”

Kent blushes. “Sounds good.”

  


  


  


  


“What are you in the mood for?” Jack asks.

_Just you,_ Kent could say, but then he’d have to punch himself in the face. “Blow me,” he says instead. “I flew three thousand miles to hang out with you.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He crowds Kent in until Kent’s falling onto the couch. Jack kneels in front of him, fingers stroking against Kent’s thigh. “But it’s less than three thousand. More like twenty-seven hundred, I think.”

Kent grabs Jack by the hair. He tells himself not to focus on Jack knowing the number of miles. “Cool. Now _blow_ me.”

It’s a decent night, all things considered.

  


  


  


  


“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” his sister asks. 

Kent digs his phone against his ear. He’s grinding his teeth, which he knows is bad, but it’s not as bad as it would be to lash out at Jenny. “Nah, I don’t think so, Jen,” he says. “Got a home game the next day and I need to rest up.”

“Kent, it’s Thanksgiving.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s October third.”

Jenny switches to her authoritative voice, which is crap because she’s four years younger than him. “You haven’t visited in two years, Kent. If you’re not planning to show up for Thanksgiving, at least make it for Christmas. I know for a fact you don’t play the day before or the day after.”

Kent’s throat feels like it’s closing up. He doesn’t want to think about this. “I dunno, Jen. I’ll let you know.”

“Kent --”

“Hey, how did that test go? Quantum something?”

Jenny sighs. Kent tends to cause people to do that. “String theory. It was fine. So I’ll see you at Christmas?”

His sister is super smart and is majoring in math stuff -- Mathematical Physics with a focus on Quantum Gravity, not that Kent actually knows what that means. He doesn’t know how someone as intelligent as Jenny could delude herself into thinking Kent’s going to come home for Christmas. “I’ll let you know, Jen.”

“Alright, Kent. I’m excited to see you.”

Then again, maybe Kent’s the dumb one for thinking he’ll be able to get out of it.

  


  


  


  


Kent has an appointment with his therapist, which is kind of nice and extremely awful in the sense that he talks about his family and about Jack, and about, like, his feelings. They’ve been talking about some other stuff too, like how maybe Kent should figure out how to make friends who don’t play hockey. But Kent doesn’t have any hobbies, really, and he’s not sure what he could do. It’s not like he’s going to join a book club.

He takes a Buzzfeed quiz to find out what new hobby he should take up. This is totally what his therapist would have wanted.

\-- So, apparently he should give geocaching a try. Kent isn’t sure what kind of friends he would make in a geocaching group, but the quiz result says he’s bright, curious, and in touch with his inner child, so he thinks it’s probably good.

Kent opens up a Google search window on his phone. _geocaching groups las vegas_ , he types.

The smartest thing to do would be to keep this a secret. Troy would laugh at him, and Jack would literally chirp him to death. Nobody needs to know.

  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack’s been laughing for a solid thirty seconds.

“You like photography,” Kent tries. He knows it’s not as embarrassing as geocaching, but he figures it’s worth a shot.

Jack takes a few breaths. He’s, like, wheezing. It’s not hot. “Isn’t geocaching that thing where you go in the woods with a compass and look for buried treasure? I can see you doing that, Kenny. Oh shit, you’ll get poison ivy --” And then he’s laughing again.

Kent rolls his eyes. He knows Jack is thinking about the time Kent got poison ivy when they were teenagers. He’s still embarrassed that he was such a baby about it. He loves that Jack remembers. “Dude, there’s urban geocaching. You can just walk around the city and find shit under benches or whatever.”

“Please don’t do that, Parse. Please go into the wilderness and send me lots of pictures.”

“Oh?” Kent shifts a little on his bed. “You want me to send pictures?”

Jack is silent, which tells Kent everything he needs to know. 

“Hold on,” Kent says.

He doesn’t have any nudes stored up on his phone, because hello, hackers, but he practices sometimes. He knows the best lighting and angle for this situation. Kent’s received several more dick pics from Jack over the past few months, and he’s sent back a few of his own, but he feels like it’s an ass pic kind of night.

The sharp intake of breath Kent hears over the line after he sends the picture -- yeah. It’s gratifying.

They switch to FaceTiming after that, and Kent decides he might as well just stay naked. Jack keeps his shirt on, which is sad, but once Kent starts jerking off for the camera he can tell that Jack’s doing the same thing. 

“Zimms,” Kent pants, “lemme see.” Then Jack moves his phone so Kent has a good view -- which takes a couple tries and at first Kent is just seeing Jack’s couch -- and it feels like Kent’s been kicked in the chest. Jack’s so beautiful, and he’s doing this with _Kent_ , and Kent comes with a whimper, which is way more than he’d normally do for his own hand.

“Kenny,” Jack says. He sounds so far away. And he is far away, Kent remembers, a twenty-seven hundred miles type of far away. “Let me -- let me see you again.”

Kent isn’t sure what Jack wants to see, so he just sweeps his phone over his whole body, front and back, until he hears Jack groan. 

“Anyway,” Kent says, once his breathing’s all good again and he can see a gorgeous pink flush all the way down Jack’s body, “I’m gonna join a geocaching group for real. And maybe I _will_ go in the woods with it. You don’t know.”

“Christ, Parse.” Jack scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re talking about that. Now.”

“Well, I think it would be a good way to make friends. I dunno.”

Jack’s face softens. “I bet it would be, too. Are some of the guys on the team going to do it with you?”

Kent rolls over onto his stomach. He’s starting to get cold. “Nah. They’re assholes, so they’d probably laugh at me. Can you believe that?”

“Who would ever laugh at you?” Jack says, and Kent can’t help but smile. “But seriously, Kenny, I bet you’d have more fun if you brought along someone you already know. Maybe you should ask Troy.”

Kent knows Troy does outdoorsy stuff with his family in Ottawa, but he indulges himself in a quick daydream where Jack lives in the area and they go exploring in the desert together. It’d probably be more fun in Providence, where they could actually go in the woods. He thinks he’d liked to get pushed up against a tree. It’s never happened to Kent before, so he quickly adds it to his mental bucket list, which so far includes such stunners as _Tell Jack I love him_ and _Learn how to play the guitar_.

“Or maybe,” Jack says, his voice going extra Canadian like it always does when he’s about to tease Kent, “I can join you when I’m in town for our game. Someone’s got to keep you from getting lost, right?”

Kent blushes. It’s from happiness, not embarrassment, but Jack doesn’t need to know that. “Whatever, Zimms.”

  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack flies in the evening before the Aces play the Falconers, and Kent takes him out for dinner with Troy and Scrappy, just so people won’t talk. It kind of drives Kent crazy, though, to see Troy and Scrappy not at all subtly texting each other throughout the night. 

Whatever. Kent doesn’t care what they think about him and Jack.

  


  


  


  


“Okay, so what did you guys think?” Kent asks the second they’re alone at the rink the next morning. He knows it’s been, like, ten hours since dinner, but whatever. They know what he’s talking about.

“I… don’t know,” Troy says.

Kent blinks at him. “You what?”

Troy and Scrappy exchange looks. What the fuck. “You seem really -- into him,” Scrappy tries.

Christ. Not this again. Kent forces a smile on his face. “Yeah, well, we’ve established that. Everything’s cool, though; you don’t need to worry. But what did you _think_?”

“He was fine, like, friendly to us and nice to you,” Troy says. “I don’t know, Kent. It’s not like I actually have a problem with him.”

“That’s fucking news to me,” Kent mutters. “You’re always -- like --”

Troy shrugs. “Yeah. It’s ‘cause we don’t want you to get hurt, and you’re too much of a dumbass to watch out for yourself. So if you’re into him, what are you going to do about it? ‘Cause you can’t keep hooking up with him and pretending that’s all there is.”

“Like, okay.” Kent triple-checks that they’re really alone. “Obviously I want to be hitting that long-term. But I can’t just _say_ that, he’s like a nervous little bird that will fly away if I make any sudden moves. I have to wait for the perfect moment.”

“Well, I hope your perfect moment comes along before you turn sixty,” Troy says. He’s always been kind of bleak, Kent thinks.

“I think you guys are nice together,” Scrappy offers. “Just. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

Kent can’t disagree with that.

“Parse,” Troy says, then sighs. He deflates a little. “He seems like a good friend to you. I can see you two dating, and I think it would be good. You happy? Does it make you happy to hear that?”

“Uh.” Kent blinks. “Yes.” Like, no shit.

“Well, shut up. Because if _he_ can’t see you together, then it doesn’t count. Do it on your own time, Parse, but you gotta talk to him and figure out where you stand. Because otherwise you’re gonna get hurt right before playoffs and go off the deep end, and then we’re gonna lose.”

Kent rolls his eyes and leans into Troy for a second. “Wow. And here I thought you really cared.”

“I do,” Troy says quietly.

“We do,” Scrappy echoes.

Kent scowls a little, but he knows they see right through him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


FaceTime sex is fun, as it turns out. It’s even better when Jack finally figures out the best place to prop up his phone so Kent gets a good view. 

“You don’t have to get dressed again _right_ away,” Kent complains after they’re finished.

Jack looks up from where he’s pulling his pants past his knees and almost trips. “Shit,” he says as he catches his balance, ignoring Kent laughing at him. “Okay, I’ll stay naked if you go put my jersey on. Deal?”

Kent rolls over so Jack can’t see the look on his face. He’s not sure exactly what’s going on there, but he knows it’s intense. He can’t believe Jack wants -- “Okay. Deal.”

“Wait, stay like that for a second,” Jack snickers. Kent rolls his eyes and pushes himself into a standing position with a little extra attention to how his ass looks from his phone’s angle.

Kent comes back a minute later in his Zimmermann jersey. Best two grand he ever spent. “So,” he says, flopping back onto his bed with his phone in his hand. Now that the sex is over, face-to-face is good. “What are you up to these days? I saw on Insta that Snow and Mashkov went to the Mall of America when you played Minnesota. You go with them?”

“No. I’ve been kind of tired lately.”

Kent double-checks Jack’s face, checking for signs of illness. In a totally chill way. “You don’t look too bad. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says with a small smile. “I’ve always had issues with insomnia. It comes and goes. But I’m fine.”

Vividly, Kent remembers being sixteen years old and waking up at three in the morning to see Jack watching him sleep. At the time, he’d thought it meant everything. 

“You get insomnia when you’re stressed,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I really am fine, Parse.”

Kent tells himself to stop acting weird. “You’re gonna sleep like a baby tonight. Getting laid always makes you sleepy. Loser.”

Jack snorts. It shouldn’t make Kent’s heart feel all warm, but such is life. “I don’t think touching myself while you watch counts as getting laid, Kenny.”

“Well.” Kent shrugs and tries really, really hard to act casual. “What’s stopping you from actually getting laid?” 

“I --” Jack turns red. “I haven’t really. Been sleeping with anyone else. So.”

Kent nods. This is a normal conversation. “Yeah, same.” He clears his throat. “That hockey schedule. Tough.”

Jack nods back. “It’s -- yeah. I have no time. And when I do have time, I have no energy. And when I do have energy, I’m with my team.” 

“I’m kinda scared of, like, the media, too?” Kent plays with the hem of his Zimmermann jersey. “I dunno if that’s a thing for you. Like, you’re out, but that means they look at you more.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and he trails off. Finally, he sighs. “It’s just hard. It’d be nice to meet someone, but -- yeah.”

“Yeah.” Abruptly, Kent feels stupid wearing this jersey. He feels like crying. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, man?”

Jack groans. “Probably. Talk to you on Thursday?”

“Yeah, Zimms. Now go get your beauty sleep. You fucking need it.”

“Har, har,” Jack says, monotone, which is so nerdy Kent wants to die. “Okay. I’m going to bed.” Kent watches as Jack stretches, yawns. He’s still shirtless. He’s so cute. “Hey, Parse?”

“Yeah?”

“Put the camera far away. I wanna see the jersey again.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “Bossy, bossy. Okay.” He props his phone up on the dresser and stands up, turning around to show off how good he looks in Jack’s jersey and nothing else. “There. You happy, you narcissistic freak?”

Jack’s face is harder to see when Kent’s phone is across the room, but he looks unrepentant. “You look hot, Parse.”

Kent blushes and tries to think of something to say. Jack ends the call before Kent comes up with anything, which is probably just as well.

  


  


  


  


  


Jack visits on his bye week. Kent toys with the idea that this is normal behavior for fuckbuddies, but it doesn't really take. 

October is turning into November. This is Kent's favorite time of year in Vegas, when it's usually in the mid-seventies and it's not quite so dry out. He recruits Troy and Scrappy to go with them to a fancy restaurant, but he has Jack all to himself when they go hiking through Calico Basin.

“Let's stay in tomorrow,” Jack says when Kent suggests they drive out into the desert the next day. “It's my last day here, and it'd be nice to have some time alone with you, you know?”

Kent is all for staying in so they can have sex, but he can't help but add, “You can always stay another day. Two days is so short, anyway.”

“Kenny, I can't. I still need to spend some time with my family. And my college friends.”

Ah, yes. The college friends. Kent tries not to think about that, or at least not to freak out about it. “Alright, that's cool. We can stay in for a day of debauchery.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Don’t jump to any conclusions, Parse. Maybe I just wanted to watch TV.”

“Uh-huh. I'll remember that when you're trying to get your dick in my mouth tomorrow.”

Jack blushes, which is predictable and still cute. “Ha. Okay. Mind if I take first shower?”

Kent should probably let him go, considering how sweaty they both are after hiking for hours in the sun, but what the hell. “Why would you want to shower before?”

“Before?” Jack's forehead wrinkles in confusion. “What -- oh.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He reaches down and grabs Jack's hands, letting them drift upward and land on Kent's body.

The bed is more comfortable, but the couch is closer, so they end up on the couch. It's kind of gross the way their clothes just peel off, but Kent loves how Jack smells. Warm and sweaty and masculine. Kent just has practice tomorrow, so he is more than ready to let Jack fuck him. 

He says as much, and Jack groans, fingers digging into Kent's sides so hard he thinks they'll leave bruises. “Kenny, can you ride me,” Jack whispers.

It's such a good idea. Kent remembers the only time they slept together that way before. They'd been seventeen, and Jack had looked at him like he was the fucking eighth wonder of the world or something.

“Yes,” Kent manages. “Let's do that.”

He lies on top of Jack and bites at his neck as Jack opens him up with his fingers. Kent mostly just feels sweet, like he wants to kiss Jack everywhere and tell Jack he loves him, but since he can’t do that, Kent practices his sexy fake-moaning. It’s fun, anyway.

“I can tell that’s not real,” Jack mumbles, all grouchy, and he squeezes Kent’s ass to punctuate the statement. 

That one does draw a real moan out of Kent, although he’s not sure Jack notices the difference.

By the time Kent is ready, he’s starting to move from biting at Jack’s neck to sucking on it, and he’s not sure how much longer he can go without kissing him. They haven’t kissed since that very first time they hooked up again, and Jack’s leaving tomorrow, and Kent loves him. 

It’s probably for the best when Jack gently pushes at Kent’s shoulders to get him to lean back. Kent sits up. His whole body feels warm, heat and adoration pulsing under his skin, and Jack is breathless under him. Kent watches Jack carefully as he bears down on Jack’s dick -- Jack’s eyes darken slightly when he first enters Kent, and as soon as Kent makes a small noise Jack breathes in sharply through his nose.

When Jack snaps his hips up, Kent smooths a hand over Jack’s chest. “Hey, no,” he says, quiet. “I’m doing it. Don’t move.”

“Then _move_ ,” Jack whines, and Kent smiles down at him like an idiot. He does move, then, starting out slow and careful before picking up the pace. 

It’s like a drug, watching Jack’s face. His eyelids fluttering, the way he bites at his lower lip to keep quiet, breathing hard. Kent automatically reaches down to trace over one of Jack’s eyebrows, but he catches himself after a second and moves his hand to pull a little at Jack’s hair.

“Kenny -- you’re -- you’re --” Jack doesn’t seem to be going anywhere with that, just forces his eyes open and stares at Kent. It’s that look. The one Kent remembers from when they were kids, like Kent is the most beautiful thing Jack’s ever seen.

Kent exhales so hard he almost chokes on it, overwhelmed by -- everything. Jack’s body, Jack’s smell, Jack’s hands, mind, face, strength, heart, everything. 

It’s so much to feel at one time, and Kent can barely control his body now. He feels like he could pass out, and every time he rocks his hips forward it feels like he’s seconds away from collapsing, or saying _I love you_. 

“Jack,” he says helplessly, which is the same thing as saying _I love you_. “I can’t -- please --”

“Shh, yeah,” Jack says, and he rolls Kent onto his back and keeps fucking him.

They have to move a little to find a good position, and then Jack finds a rhythm he likes and pulls at Kent’s legs so they’re almost wrapped around Jack’s hips. Jack starts moving faster, so hard that Kent is almost dizzy from it, and he can’t stop touching Jack’s body, his chest and shoulders. He can’t stop saying Jack’s name.

“Yeah, Kenny,” Jack pants. “Yeah. So good. You’re doing so good.”

It _feels_ so good. Kent is practically sobbing from it. “Jack,” he manages to get out. “I -- you -- “ He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

“Shh,” Jack whispers, pushing a hand through Kent’s cowlick. “Mine,” and Kent thinks he feels every single one of his muscles shudder as he comes. 

_Mine_ , Kent thinks, everything dreamy and easy. This is how it should be. He doesn’t want to wait anymore. He tightens his legs around Jack and winds his arms around Jack’s neck, and Kent kisses Jack as sweetly as he knows how.

Jack melts into it.

Kent licks into Jack’s mouth when Jack gasps for a breath, and he digs his heels into Jack’s back to urge him on when it seems like Jack’s slowing down. Kent wants Jack to come inside him, and he whimpers against Jack’s lips when Jack starts moving again. But now Jack’s moving slower, like they’re --

It feels new. It feels like they’re making love. 

Distantly, through the haze of adoration and overstimulation, Kent can feel Jack’s thumb rubbing gently against his thigh, and he lets his legs fall open so Jack can have whatever he wants. He holds tight to Jack’s hair. It’s soft, at least Kent thinks it’s soft, and Jack’s lips are soft, soft, soft on him.

Jack’s hand is soft on his face. Kent automatically nuzzles into it and sighs when Jack kisses him deeper, sighs again when Jack skims his fingers up and down Kent’s cheek. “I’ve got you, Kenny, I’ve got you,” Jack rasps, and Kent closes his eyes and kisses him. 

Kent knows when Jack’s getting close to finishing, knows by the way his mouth goes slack against Kent’s, gasping instead of kissing. Kent clings to Jack with his legs again, trying to pull him deeper, and when Jack brushes against Kent’s already sensitive prostate, he arches into it instead of flinching away.

Jack comes, and he says Kent’s name. He says “Kenny”, and Kent feels like there’s a little sun filling up his heart. He groans when Jack collapses on top of him, because Jack is _heavy_. He’s heavy, and it’s all sexy muscle, and he’s all, all for Kent. 

His hands are for Kent now. Kent can hardly believe it, but Jack’s hands are still on him, all tender, tracing Kent’s ribs and moving over to link with Kent’s hands until their fingers are twined together. He can feel Jack’s face pressed against his neck, and it takes Kent a minute to realize that Jack is smelling him.

Jack’s such a weirdo. Kent loves him.

“Mmm,” Jack sighs, and Kent wriggles a bit so he can free one of his arms to touch Jack’s back, tracing the muscles there. Jack props himself up on his elbows, and Kent feels the muscles under his hand ripple with the movement. He smiles when Jack brushes his fingers through Kent’s stupid cowlick, but then Jack meets his eyes and it’s like getting kicked in the stomach.

There’s nothing soft there, just a growing expression of fear and confusion; regret. Kent suddenly feels nauseous, his whole world tilted and bad.

Jack stands up, and Kent can barely see him through whatever’s happening to his vision right now. “I don’t know what’s --” Jack’s breathing is shallow, somewhere above Kent, and Kent sort of feels scared that Jack’s going to have a fucking panic attack now, but he’s just trying to sit up. He has to focus on that first.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and he still sounds anxious, but he at least seems to be in control of himself. Kent can’t trust himself to do the same, so he says nothing. “I didn’t mean to do -- that, to do that with you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry --”

Kent can see now. His whole body is numb, like it’s not really attached to him anymore, and his face feels like it’s made of clay. He can’t move it. 

“I have to go,” Jack says. He looks like he’s shaking, or at least his hands are. “I can’t stay here right now. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Dimly, Kent notices the ridiculous Canadian accent when Jack says _sorry_ , and that little tug of fondness makes his whole chest feel like it’s breaking into pieces. “Okay,” Kent says, and he does want Jack to go now, because he thinks he’s about to cry like a fucking baby and he doesn’t need anyone to see that. Jack takes half a step toward Kent, uncertain, before he turns around to leave.

When Kent hears the door click shut, his heart twists suddenly like half of it’s being ripped away. He pulls the blanket off the back of the couch so he can hide under it while he cries. 

Later, he notices that Jack didn’t grab any of his stuff. He knows Jack isn’t coming back for it.

Later, he sits on the kitchen floor and apologizes to himself for the things he thought after Jack left. He doesn’t hate himself. He wasn’t stupid for believing Jack could love him. He does deserve something good, and there are plenty of good things about him that Jack could appreciate if he wanted to. 

Kent is pretty half-hearted about most of these positive messages, but it’s what his therapist wants him to do on shitty days, so he does it. She also wants him to write down the shitty messages so they can talk about them later, but he doesn’t do that.

Even later, when Kent is trying to fall asleep in a pile of blankets on the floor because he doesn’t want to associate his own bed with this feeling, Kit settles in next to him and lets Kent gently spoon her for a whole two and a half minutes before freeing herself and moving to curl up by Kent’s feet.

Even later, Kent sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so in this chapter i had a team put on its Hockey Is for Everyone night in november, which i know is completely inaccurate. this is not a big deal but i would just like the record to show that i am aware of the inaccuracy and also that i don't care. 
> 
> now -- kent!!!

Kent doesn’t hear from Jack at all the next day. He feels distracted and kind of numb all morning, but he still tears it up in practice, because he’s Kent Parson and having his heart crushed doesn’t change that. 

By the time it’s past Jack’s bedtime in Providence, Kent is starting to feel worried about him. He wants to hold out longer, to make Jack break the silence since he’s the one who walked away, but at the end of the day he values Jack too much to let this much time pass.

Because -- Kent feels the smallness of being rejected, and it’s been squeezing at him all day, but he’s also scared that he’s going to lose Jack’s friendship again. It would probably be permanent this time, he thinks, because there’s only so many times you can reconcile with someone before giving up.

The whole thing was Kent’s fault, anyway. He’s the one who ignored the boundaries of their relationship, _again_ , after Jack clearly stated them for Kent, and while the fallout sucks, it’s because of his own actions. 

He doubts Jack feels worse than him right now, considering Kent’s the one who’s been in love for practically a decade and just got rejected for the billionth time, but he knows Jack must feel like shit anyway. 

That’s probably on Kent, too. 

And he’s kind of avoided apologizing to Jack before, and Jack hasn’t really apologized to him, but if this is the first and only time in Kent’s life that he can manage to be more mature than Jack, he’s gonna take it.

  


  


**Kent** 8:40 pm  
I’m sorry I made things weird yesterday Jack. I should have respected your boundaries more. Let me know if there’s anything i can do to make it up to you because I really want things to be ok between us.

  


  


Kent figures that, while he’s turning over a new leaf of maturity, he should probably schedule an appointment with his therapist to talk about this. He’s never really done that before, because it’s easy to wait for their regularly scheduled appointment to roll around once a month and pretend he doesn’t need help beyond that.

After that Kent’s done being mature, though, so he heats up a mug of that dumb tea Jack left behind and watches two hours of Wipeout. He sprinkles catnip on the couch next to him to get Kit to join him, and it’s a good distraction from how empty he feels.

“I have two Stanley Cups,” he tells Kit. She isn’t impressed.

  


  


  


  


  


  


* * * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack accepts Kent’s apology, and offers a timid apology of his own. They don’t talk again, and it’s been a week and Kent is trying really, really hard to respect Jack’s boundaries. 

He’s also trying not to look too depressed around Troy or Scrappy, because he’d genuinely rather become a hermit in fucking Iceland or wherever than have to deal with them feeling smug about this. Kent thinks he’s doing pretty well, though. He’s probably not smiling as much as before, but at least he’s staying sober and continuing to have a personality. The whole team tries to leave him behind in Montreal when their flight is late and he starts singing Airplanes. 

It’s nice to feel like he’s still the same person.

Troy invites Kent and Scrappy over to his place to break in his douchey new pool table, and after Scrappy leaves to go walk his dog, Kent gets kinda sloshed on tequila. Kent thinks Troy’s drinking along with him until he’s filling up his glass for the fifth time and something slots into place in his brain.

“You haven’t had any. In like, a while.” Kent points at Troy. “Faker.”

“I’m just sitting here, Parser.” But Troy takes the glass out of Kent’s hands. “Cutting you off. And you need to eat some food, because I’m not dealing with you drunk. Come on.”

Kent sits at Troy’s kitchen table and mumbles stuff about how he’s not that drunk, even though he knows he is, while Troy makes him some scrambled eggs with ketchup on the side. Unfortunately, Kent has been a shitty houseguest with Troy enough that Troy knows exactly what food Kent is most likely to crave when he’s intoxicated.

“I want it with salsa on it,” Kent says when Troy sets down a heaping plate in front of him.

“Fuck you, get it yourself.”

That’s mean, Kent thinks, and his face crumples a little. “I just would like some,” he says.

Troy looks at him for a minute. “Okay. Jesus.” He takes the salsa out of the fridge and puts it on the table by Kent’s plate. “Can you at least open it yourself?”

Kent opens the salsa and pours too much on his eggs. “I guess I did. Thank you. Ugh.”

Troy leaves the kitchen while Kent eats, and after awhile Kent thinks he hears the sound of the TV in the living room. When Kent finishes, he puts his plate in the sink like a good person and grabs a tall glass of water. He’s already feeling -- not sober, but much less drunk. More capable of rational conversation.

“Why’re you always watching these stupid cop shows,” Kent mumbles as he falls onto the couch. He thinks he accidentally elbows Troy in the balls on his way down, but whatever. “Branch out already, man.”

“Of course you’re ready to talk when they’re finally going to tell me who did it,” Troy says after he’s capable of speech again. “Fine.” He pauses the TV.

Kent feels kind of bad that he came into Troy’s home and turned into a goddamn disaster. He doesn’t need to be Troy’s problem. “I don’t need to talk. Keep watching.”

“Nah, we’re talking. I fucking invited you over here to talk.” That’s news to Kent. “And if you’re not still drunk, now’s the time, right?”

“I’m not drinking alone, I’m not hooking up with strangers in bathrooms, I’m not staying up late, and I’m not talking to my parents,” Kent recites. “What else is there?”

Troy looks at the ceiling for, like, ten seconds. “Christ, Parse. Okay. Are things bad with Zimmermann again?”

Kent feels hot all over. He’s not ready to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Troy, because it’s actually kind of important to him that Troy thinks he’s cool. “I can’t -- don’t do this. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You deserve to talk about it,” Troy says, and that kind of blows Kent’s mind? Like, it literally takes him half a minute to even grasp what Troy is telling him. 

“I feel like you’re not going to say it, but there’s an _I told you so_ in there somewhere,” Kent finally says instead of saying anything important. His throat feels raw.

Troy considers him for a moment, then pats him on the shoulder. “No, dude, it’s just shitty. You wanna chill here for awhile?”

Kent does. He watches more of the dumb cop show with Troy. He makes BBQ ribs for dinner to pay Troy back for putting up with his shit. He’s still sad, but he’s not miserable.

“I think I’m gonna join, like, a geocaching group?” Kent says later, when they’re done loading the dishwasher. “I dunno.”

“Sweet. I’ll do it with you if you want.” Troy shows him some pictures on his phone of the time he went geocaching with his friends in Canada, and Kent doesn’t go home until it’s past his usual bedtime.

Kit greets him at the door by winding through his legs. “I love you,” Kent tells her very solemnly. He knows she loves him back, and that’s pretty much the most profound thing he’s ever felt.

He’s going to be okay, he thinks.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


There’s a picture going around on the Internet of Jack meeting Eric Bittle for coffee. Kent doesn’t know what to think of it, apart from the whole thing where he has a huge meltdown in his car and listens to old Shania Twain songs to feel whole again, but that was an overreaction. Now that he’s chill again, he doesn’t know what to think.

He knows Troy and Scrappy must have seen all the stupid TMZ articles that are like, Is Jack Zimmermann Getting Back Together With His Tiny, Horrible Boyfriend?, because they let Kent pick the music when they go out for coffee after practice and don’t even yell at him when he plays old Shania songs _again_.

They’re in town for Dallas’s Pride Night, which apparently is happening this year, and Kent grits his teeth through all the stupid questions. Yes, he is excited about Pride Night, but he’s here to play hockey. Yes, the Aces locker room is ready for a gay player. No, he doesn’t have anything “personal” to add (and fuck that reporter for asking; Kent knows exactly what he’s trying to do), just repeats his message that he loves hockey and believes anyone who also loves hockey deserves a fair shot. 

“Would you agree that there’s been a great sea of change in players’ attitudes?” a reporter asks Scrappy. “It seems like every player I ask tells me that they don’t care who you are or who you love; they’ll accept you as long as you can produce and help out the team. Is that right?”

“I mean, yeah,” Scrappy says. “I’d support a gay teammate even if he isn’t producing. Even if your stats aren’t good enough to make it in the league, you still deserve to be respected as a person, right? I’d care about him no matter what, he wouldn’t have to earn it on the ice.”

Kent busies himself with checking the tape on his stick so no one can see his face. He wants to be Scrappy’s friend forever. He wants to cry, a lot, because he’s never heard anyone say something like that.

When the game’s over, and Kent is done celebrating their victory by getting tipsy with the boys on the plane home, he checks his phone and sees he has a couple texts from Jack.

  


  


**Zimms** 8:04 pm  
Just so you know, I’m meeting with Eric just to catch up and see if we can be friends. I’m not trying to imply anything by telling you that, I just wanted you to understand what’s going on.

 **Zimms** 9:10 pm  
Nice game. You played great.

  


  


Kent thinks about Jack, wherever he is right now. Probably in his apartment. The Falconers didn’t have a game today, and Jack’s most likely asleep by now.

For a few seconds, he imagines Jack, asleep in his bed. He has that boring navy blue bedspread, and Kent loves him. And -- of course he does. Kent still feels about ten thousand layers of hurt and rejection and shame over what happened last time, but that doesn’t change the fact that he only has to _imagine_ crawling under the covers with Jack to feel more centered and peaceful than he has in weeks.

  


  


**Kent** 11:15 pm  
Thanks for letting me know.

 **Kent** 11:16 pm  
and i’m glad you liked how we played, because we’re gonna kick your asses when we play you this weekend *nail polish emoji*

  


  


  


  


  


  


The Aces beat the Falconers, which is fucking awesome, but Jack scores a goal and Kent doesn't, which sucks.

Kent thinks he should text Jack after the game. Something casual. He's too nervous to ask if they can hang out somewhere, and it probably wouldn't end well if they did, so Kent just says, _nice game, told you we'd beat you._

 _Liked your goal tonight,_ Jack sends back. _Oh wait._

_scoreboard bitch_

It's probably good if they just leave it at that. It's more than Kent expected to get in the first place. Kent puts his phone in his pocket and gets in a car with some of his teammates. He isn’t even sure where they’re going, but he’s hoping it’s somewhere where the alcohol is strong.

The bar the boys picked is fine. It has dark lighting, but not so much that Kent feels weird and vampire-y, and the seats have these nice pleather cushions on them. But the music is too country-rock for Kent’s taste, in the sense that he _has_ taste, and the chips that he steals from Scrappy’s order are stale. 

“Do you wanna stay until, like, eleven?” Kent asks Troy when he gets a quiet moment. He’s more likely to get Troy to leave early with him than Scrappy, because Troy is secretly a cranky grandpa at heart and Scrappy is secretly an over-enthusiastic frat boy. “It’s kinda lame here.”

Troy nods. He looks tired already, but Kent very kindly doesn’t comment on it because Troy is doing him a solid by agreeing to head out early.

Kent finishes his beer and doesn’t really want another. Some of the other guys are reaching that stage of tipsy-drunk where they think they’re a lot funnier than they really are, and Kent is still feeling kind of bruised just from being in the same city as Jack, and the guys drinking around him are starting to get too loud, bumping into Kent when they move around the table.

“Bathroom,” Kent says, loudly, and he eventually is able to elbow his way out of the hellhole known as the Aces roster after a win. 

Kent doesn’t have to use the bathroom, and he thinks that, even if he did, he’d literally rather piss in the street than find out what the facilities in this place are like. But that might just be his mood right now. So he squeezes through a crowd of loud drunk people and goes up to the bar to order a rum and coke like the sad, basic bitch he is.

“Oh,” a loud, intoxicated voice way above Kent’s head says, followed by what sounds like cursing. In another language. “You are here. This bar going to dogs, ha!”

Jesus Christ. Where there’s a drunk Alexei Mashkov, Kent can assume he’ll also find a bunch of drunk Providence hockey players. This is just what he fucking needed. “Yep, so I’m going back to my table now. Cool seeing you, bye.” When Mashkov doesn’t move out of the way, Kent lowkey wonders if he’s about to get punched, even though he didn’t do anything that he knows of to deserve it tonight. “Uh, bye? HAKAS?”

“Now I know you making word up,” Mashkov says. “Up? That is right, yes?”

Kent is so lost. And he’s only had one beer, but the combination of alcohol and Jack Zimmermann-related anxiety makes him feel like he’s going to puke all over Mashkov’s hilariously expensive-looking shoes, and then Mashkov really might punch him. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Zimmboni!” Mashkov beams at someone behind Kent. Someone. Kent wonders who. He needs to leave this bar and never, ever come back.

Jack is standing next to Kent now. Kent is holding a rum and coke and feeling about two feet tall. Life is great.

“Hey, Kenny,” Jack says. His smile is small, and awkward, and real. Kent thinks he can stick around for a few minutes, probably. “Crashing our bar after the game, eh?”

“ _Your_ bar,” Kent echoes. “I didn’t see your name on it.”

“Is called Jackknife,” Mashkov supplies. Right. He’s still here.

“Well, hardy har har,” Kent says sourly. “Do you come here often? Wait, rephrase. Is this your normal spot after games?”

Jack chuckles. He’s leaning against the bar counter. He looks comfortable, like he could stay here talking for awhile. “Sometimes. To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the food, but the music is good.”

Kent looks around in total disbelief. Maybe he’s dreaming and the bar isn’t currently playing a song about some guy losing his truck.

Jack laughs in one short burst, and Kent can’t help but smile back. “You’re being judgmental, Parse. In my own city? Really?”

“And they named the bar after you, too,” Kent muses, and Jack laughs again.

It’s not long before Jack figures out what Kent is drinking, and Kent almost dies laughing from all the weak, Canadian chirping. He doesn’t leave until Troy comes over to grab him at twenty past eleven, and it’s kind of a shock to realize how much time has passed.

“We gotta go,” Troy says. He’s not making eye contact with Jack, but Kent appreciates how he’s not being super rude, either. He wishes Troy could have waited, like, five more minutes, though. They were just starting to talk about whether it would be awesome or terrible to actually have Clifford the Big Red Dog living in your backyard, and Kent wants to hear Jack’s arguments.

“Okay, well, bye,” Kent says. He suddenly feels awkward again for the first time in forty minutes. “Guess you’ll have to go find your team now, huh? Sucks that you won’t have anyone interesting to talk to.”

Jack shrugs. He’s not looking at Troy. “I can hang out with Tater.” He looks around. “Oh. When did he go?”

Kent hadn’t noticed Mashkov leave either, and before he can say anything else, Troy drapes a friendly arm over Kent’s shoulder and uses it to drag him away. Kent waves, as best as he can when he’s being assaulted by a teammate, and Jack waves back.

“Your life is a soap opera,” Troy says when they’re walking out the front door. “I’m so tired of it.”

Kent doesn’t answer. He’s distracted. Because -- he and Jack can be friends. Jack likes him as a friend. After everything, after Kent made this huge fucking mess, Jack still likes him so much that he can lose track of time and his 6’4’’ teammate just because he’s talking to Kent.

He wishes it could be enough for him. Because -- right now, it feels good, like he’d been a deflated balloon and he’s back to normal all of a sudden, but it’s not enough. Kent doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have Jack in his life -- screw that, honestly, to have Jack on this _planet_ \-- and not feel drawn to him, like every secret soft feeling Kent’s ever had only counts when Jack’s there to give it to.

“I’m tired of it too,” Kent says, finally, but he’s thinking about how soon is too soon to text Jack again.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


* * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


**Missed Call** from Zimms

4:15 A.M.

(1) Voicemail

“Hey, Parse. I have to be honest, I’m calling you now because I know you’re gonna be asleep. I was nervous you’d pick up anyway, but -- well. Okay, I wrote this down. Don’t laugh at me. Never mind, I know you are.

Okay. I’m mainly calling because I need to tell you I’m sorry. We both know that we made a mistake the last time we were together, and I understand now that it was probably a mistake to start a sexual relationship without sitting down and talking about our past first. I think that what happened that night was because I care about you so much as a friend, and when you bring sex into the equation those feelings show themselves in ways that can be unexpected or inappropriate for the moment. That isn’t fair to you, and I know it probably brought back some bad memories. I’m sorry for that, and I’m sorry if I hurt you further by keeping to myself for the past weeks, but I needed time to think, and I’m ready to share some of that with you. I don’t want to accidentally get hurt from all this, and I don’t want to cause you any hurt. I know I already have, and I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at telling you what I want, and I know that’s been a cause of a lot of our problems.

So I’m also calling to tell you what I want. Being friends with you is honestly one of the happiest parts of my life, and I want to continue that more than anything. I care about you, Kenny, so much, and -- you make me really happy. It’s hard for me to explain. I think about it like -- it’s like you light me up every time I see you. I don’t know if that makes sense, but I think you’ll understand.

Anyway. Back to my notecard here. Being friends with you is -- I already said that. Okay. I’m realizing that we need to establish clear boundaries so things aren’t confusing. I thought we could blur the line between _friends_ and _friends with benefits_ , but that’s clearly not true. We have too much between us -- too much in our past to really make that work. I know it will probably be uncomfortable, but I want to be friends, and I want to work through that discomfort. I don’t want to run from this again. If you get one thing from this, Kenny, please understand that I believe that our friendship is worth anything. We can talk about anything, we can set any boundaries you want, we can go to therapy together if you think that will help. And if you don’t feel comfortable being friends, I can accept that and follow your lead. This is just me telling you what I want. 

Okay. That’s it. Please take some time to think about what you need, because I think we both rushed into this without thinking about it enough. I want to understand everything you’re feeling so we can work through it and be friends again. If you can’t do that, you have the right to do whatever you need to keep yourself happy. That’s the best thing I can think of, really, and I’ll be fine with whatever you need. 

Well, anyway, Kenny, have a good last few hours of sleep, and I hope you have a nice practice today. Your drop pass is looking a lot better. 

\-- uh. I hope I talk to you later. Bye.”

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent can’t focus all day and has a shitty practice. He’s not sure how Jack could have expected any other outcome, but then he remembers that Jack is blissfully ignorant of, like, everything, and he groans again.

He’s lying on the kitchen floor. It’s peaceful down here because the tile is cold, and Kit has finally gotten bored of him and isn’t trying to paw at his face anymore. 

Troy had texted him earlier, all concerned. Kent had declined the offer of pizza and beer, but had used about twelve heart-eye emojis when he told Troy how adorable it was for him to ask. That ought to convince Troy that Kent was feeling fine.

And, like -- he is feeling fine. Mostly. He just needs the rest of the evening to allow himself to feel overwhelmed. In a way, he’d started to make peace with the idea of not having Jack in his life anymore. Well, not peace. More like he was starting to convince himself that he could go back to being happy without Jack in his life just like he’d been before.

Kent tries to imagine that now. It sucks. He loves Jack. He’s _in love_ with Jack. Voluntarily separating himself from Jack Zimmermann is something he’s actually never done before, and the idea of doing it permanently is so unbearable that he feels his stomach shift like he’s going to be sick.

But he could do it. If he really had no better option, Kent knows he’d survive. He loves Jack, but he doesn’t need him to, like, function. Or even to be happy. Hell, Kent went geocaching the other day and it was a fucking blast. He’s doing okay.

So maybe they can try being friends. Kent tries to imagine that too. He likes the idea of hanging out, eating dinner together, making Jack laugh --

And even just imagining Jack’s smile sends a twinge of pain right through Kent’s heart. Being friends, being _just_ friends with no hope of ever trying for anything more, would be unbearable too. 

Fuck. Kent has pretty much no options.

“Alexa,” Kent says, balancing his phone on his face, “how do I get over Jack Zimmermann?”

There’s no response, probably because he doesn’t have an Alexa. Anyway, he’s had practically a decade to get over Jack. It’s not happening any time soon.

“Fuck,” Kent says.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“‘Sup, Zimms. It’s, like, three A.M. your time so I’m glad you didn’t answer. 

So, yeah. I took a page out of your book. Actually, I was going to text you instead, but you know I’m borderline illiterate, and I didn’t want to figure out how to put it all in writing. And we both know you love the sound of my voice.

\--Okay, sorry. I know I just breathed all Darth Vader-style in your ear for a solid twenty seconds. Just ignore it. This is probably why I should have texted. Okay. Uh. Whew. Get ready for this, Zimms. Sit down.

Okay.

I think you’re right that we can’t keep going without talking about what we’re doing. That sucked, even if the sex was great. So, like, I totally respect your wishes and all. If we could be friends, I mean, friends for real, that would be so amazing. Like, you’re the best. And I know you don’t get that, but I feel -- well, okay. You’re really great, and it would be great to be friends. Fuck, I can’t talk.

So. What I am trying to say, sort of, is that we have sucked at communicating. That has been our thing. No matter what else happens, I think we’re on the same page that we need to be really honest and get better at that. Because, like, if you make me this happy now, when we’re dumb and can’t talk to each other, and I guess if you’re saying I make you happy too, obviously being all communicate-y will make that even better. 

Uh. Uhhhhh. Sorry. Give me a sec.

So, like. So like, if we’re going to communicate -- to communicate more, I need to tell you that I feel, you know. Um. I have really strong feelings for you. Like, you know. So. I want to be with you, and it hurts that you never seem to really think about being with me, but like, you could. If you wanted to. 

So you could do that, or if -- if you wanted to not do that, we can be friends. So obviously you’re right that we’d need to talk a lot about boundaries and feelings and stuff if we’re just gonna be friends, because that would be really hard for me. But I can do that if you want to. Like, shit, shit, I would want that way before I’d want to go back to not talking at all. We can -- well, we’ll figure it out. 

Sorry to just throw this at you, Zimms, but it feels like I have to say it now. I can be your friend, and that would be great, like, mostly, but I don’t want to waste time lying anymore. I think about you all the time. I want you all the time. 

Okay, that was really intense. I honestly need to go to bed now, so, like, please don’t freak out too hard, and don’t think I’m a loser, please? Basically, ugh, I’m just saying that it’s important for me to have you in my life, and hopefully you feel the same way, and if you can’t see yourself giving dating me a chance then that’s cool, and please don’t jump to the conclusion that we can’t still be friends. I just need to tell you.

I’m kinda scared to hang up, ‘cause then this message will be on your phone. Sorry if I ruined your day? And sorry -- okay, that’s enough. I think you get the picture. Ugh. Okay. Bye.

You’re the best person I’ve ever met, so like -- okay! Bye.”

  


  


  


  


Kent is jumpy all day, which kind of ends up being a good thing when he’s extra fast and scores two goals against Seattle. He smiles and shakes his head when the boys try to get him to come along to some bar afterward, and barely anyone calls him on it. 

So, he knew Jack wouldn’t respond right away. He’s been scared on and off all day, sometimes thinking that Jack’s panicking because of him, sometimes thinking that Jack’s just annoyed about Kent being a pathetic loser ex. There’s also a little fear mixed in that Jack’s phone somehow ate the message, but that doesn’t seem very likely.

Kent’s just going to bed, which in this case means he’s finished pacing around the house holding Kit in his arms for comfort until she got pissed at him, when he finally gets a text from Jack.

“Holy shit,” Kent says. He’s scared to read it. His vision is, like, blurry.

  


  


**Zimms** 10:08 pm  
Thanks for telling me. I’m thinking.

  


  


That’s so fucking Jack. He’s so -- Kent starts crying, which is mostly out of relief that Jack finally said _something_ , and he feels another surge of fondness for Zimms, this weird, beautiful, shy, breathtaking asshole who apparently owns most of the real estate in Kent’s heart and won’t go away. 

He sends back a thumbs up emoji and takes a sleeping pill. “Kit, come love me,” he says, and she ignores him so she can go take a nap in his closet.

  


  


  


  


  


  


They play in Pittsburgh in the first week of December. Kent tries to be a world-class big brother while still ignoring all of Jenny’s questions about when he’ll stop by the Parson house for Christmas. He turns his phone off ten minutes into her sustained assault of sending him pictures of cats under Christmas trees.

Like, she means well. But Kent can’t think about it.

He crashes in Troy’s room that night, because Troy and Scrappy are pretty much the only people it’s safe to be around when he feels like he might explode his feelings everywhere. Which he isn’t going to do. Because he has self-restraint.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Scrappy asks.

Kent shrugs. Troy doesn’t look up from his phone, probably because he’s texting the girl he met last week. 

“Or a show…” Scrappy tries.

That would probably be good. It would give Kent something to focus on other than the mess that is his head right now. “Sure.” He lets Scrappy pick the show, which apparently means they’re watching Friends. Troy perks up and puts his phone down. Kent doesn’t totally get straight people.

“How’re you doing?” Troy says quietly, a few minutes later, nudging his shoulder against Kent’s where they’re sitting next to each other on the bed. 

“I’m good.” Kent feels exposed and embarrassed. He feels -- hopeful, because they’re his friends. Right now, they’re pretty much his only friends. Troy said he deserved to talk about stuff. “Uh. I just need, like, a Xanax and a spa day and then I’ll be good.”

Scrappy looks worried. “Are you still feeling sick? Shit, Parser. You should go to bed early, maybe.”

That’s an easy out. Kent should take it. 

Well -- he shouldn’t take it. He should be honest and let people in more. That’s what his therapist says, and kind of what Jack says, and definitely what Troy says, and maybe what he’s saying to himself? “No, like, I’m not sick. I’m just having a hard time with, you know, Jack. Blah.”

“Oh,” Scrappy says, and Troy hands him an apple slice. “What did he do?”

Kent is lucky to have a friend who actually thinks any problem in their relationship would be Jack’s fault. It’s not like Scrappy knows much about the way Kent used to deal with his negative emotions, but he appreciates it anyway. He shrugs. “It was more like, I ruined everything by getting too romantic when we were supposed to be casual, and he was all _I want to keep being friends_ , and I was all, _No, but I love you._ So.”

“Ah, Parse!” Scrappy says eloquently. He gives Kent what might be the world’s most awkward but most comforting hug, the angle all weird because of how they’re arranged on the hotel bed. Kent blushes and tries to avoid looking at Troy, because this is the first time Troy’s hearing the details and Kent feels more like a loser than ever.

Troy flops across Kent to give him a half-hug, half-snuggle that pretty much crushes his ribs, and Kent smiles dumbly and hopes no one notices the tears welling up in his eyes. “You’ll be okay,” Troy promises. “He cares about you. And if he fucks up, we care about you too. You’ll be okay.”

That’s the sweetest fucking thing. Kent sniffles a little, which causes Scrappy to start crying, and then Troy kicks them both out of his room because he’s about to start crying too. Kent hangs out in Scrappy’s room for a while, mostly because he’s nervous about being alone, and Scrappy gets tipsy and talks about this girl named Jocelyn? It takes Kent literally fifteen minutes to realize she’s someone Scrappy went to high school with but never spoke to.

“Okay, man,” Kent says. He stumbles over his words a bit. He might be kind of buzzed himself. Or, like, drunk. “You play in the fucking NHL now. You make _bank_. Go find her and tell her you want to date her. You’re such a fucking stud.”

Scrappy looks sadly at his empty beer bottle. “She won’t like me. I’m not -- she won’t like me.”

“Such -- a -- fuck-- ing -- stud,” Kent repeats. “I bet Jocelyn loves you.”

After Kent finally collapses into his own bed, he lies on his back and watches the ceiling spin for a few minutes. He’s sleepy, but he needs to -- he needs Jack. He digs around on his phone, where most of the pictures are either Kit pics or selfies, and he finds a good photo he took of Jack. A creeper shot when Jack was reading on the window seat at Kent’s house, all beautiful and quiet and so perfect that Kent wants to touch him, touch him, touch him.

He falls asleep like that, warm and happy-sad and drunk. The hangover is not worth it, but Kent is at least relieved the next morning to see that he hasn’t texted or called Jack. 

Scrappy and Kent are both hungover and whiny on the flight home that morning. Troy takes one look at them and moves to sit by the goalies.

  


  


  


  


  


  


* * * * * *

  


  


  


  


  


  


When Kent drags himself off the ice after a long day of practice and sees Bob Zimmermann’s name taunting him from his missed calls, he wonders if he’s about to get the world’s weirdest shovel talk.

It’s kind of a horrible thought. Kent’s always wanted Bob to like him, and it seemed like he did up until Jack’s overdose. Then it became pretty fucking apparent that Bob didn’t like him after he ignored Kent’s calls for the fifth time.

Now Kent’s this close to pissing himself at the thought that Jack could have -- told Bob what happened? Talked to Bob about Kent’s voicemail? Kent doesn’t know if Jack and Bob are actually that close, but he waits until he’s in his car to call Bob back just in case.

“Kent?” Bob says after three rings. Kent’s throat is dry, but he manages a basic reply. “I’m so glad you called me back. Is now a good time to talk?”

Obviously it is, since Kent’s the one who initiated the call, but sure. They make some small talk about the season, which is starting to wear on Kent now that they’re deep into it with several months to go before playoffs, and about Jack, which is just fucking great. Bob mentions that Jack toured an old haunted hotel, which throws Kent off his game for, like, a full minute.

“Well,” Bob says eventually, “maybe I should get to the reason I called in the first place.”

“Sure,” Kent says, putting a lot of smile into his voice. It probably wasn’t anything bad. 

Bob clears his throat. “If you’re free Christmas Eve, we’d love to have you over for a party and charity event that Alicia and I are hosting. We have a guy coming who represents a New York program that does outreach to families under the poverty line, and I think Jack mentioned you’re looking to expand your own charity work, so I thought that would be a good connection to make.”

Kent feels like his heart is going to explode from beating too fast. Being in Jack’s house on Christmas Eve. There’s no way. 

And the suckiest thing is that, in some alternate reality or whatever, he’d already have an invite to Jack’s place for every Christmas, and every August 3, and every stupid Canadian Thanksgiving.

“I might be able to,” he says. He wants to, he wants to. It would be such a shitty thing to do, though, and Jack wouldn’t like it. “I might be doing something with my family, but it’s kind of up in the air. I’ll keep you posted, though?”

“Of course,” Bob says warmly. Ugh. Kent wants a dad. A good dad. Whatever. “You can let us know whenever you want. It’s no trouble at all to add you last-minute.”

A few minutes later, Kent hangs up and reclines his seat back so he can just breathe. He wants to see Jack in an ugly Christmas sweater. He knows Jack probably doesn’t own an ugly Christmas sweater, but that’s not the point.

Kent is so tired. Hockey is rough on his body, he’s stressed about saying no to his family, and the only thing he can imagine that feels soothing at all is to have Jack there. If he could just press himself up against Jack’s side, breathe him in, feel Jack’s arms covering him -- he’d never be exhausted again.

He’s going to be spending Christmas alone in his house, and that kind of sucks. Kent’s throat hurts. He listens to annoying country rock music the whole drive home, and there’s no point in pretending he doesn’t know why.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


There’s another week of Zimmermann radio silence. Kent researches ancient forms of torture just to compare, but yeah, actual torture is worse than Jack ignoring him. 

It still sucks, though.

  


  


**Kent** 7:40 pm  
whats like that word that means sexist against women? 

**Troy** 7:42 pm  
Is there another kind

 **Kent** 7:42 pm  
i feel like it starts with an m

 **Troy** 7:43 pm  
Misogynistic?

 **Kent** 7:44 pm  
yeah. did you know that a lot of torture stuff from the olden days is actually like super misogynistic? 

**Kent** 7:44 pm  
its fucked up

 **Troy** 7:45 pm  
Thanks for the history lesson. I don’t want to know why you’re watching this.

 **Kent** 7:45 pm  
i was reading stuff on the internet actually. it was gross :/

 **Troy** 7:46 pm  
You can read?

 **Kent** 7:46 pm  
anyway wanna come over? *halo emoji* *pizza emoji*

 **Kent** 7:46 pm  
HEY

 **Troy** 7:47 pm  
Not really. 

**Kent** 7:47 pm  
please 

**Troy** 7:48 pm  
I don’t feel like leaving my house. And I know you’re in the mood to watch horror movies tonight if you’re researching torture shit. Count me out.

 **Kent** 7:48 pm  
i promise i won’t. we already made a pact remember?

 **Troy** 7:49 pm  
Yeah and I’m still mad. Why the fuck would you think I’d like Saw.

 **Kent** 7:49 pm  
to be fair, i didn’t think you’d like it at all

 **Troy** 7:49 pm  
*middle finger emoji*

  


  


Sure, it’s a minor accomplishment to wring an emoji out of Troy, but Kent is bored. He turns on the third Nightmare on Elm Street movie and turns off his phone so his mom won’t be able to call him.

He’d be mad at Jenny for giving his new number to their parents, but apparently his mom found it on Jenny’s phone without asking. It still blows, though, and Kent doesn’t think he can handle another phone call guilting him to know when he’s arriving for Christmas.

It’s hard to pay attention to the movie when he has a hard knot in his gut, all anger and fear and confusion. Parents are stupid. He thinks he needs a new couch, too, because this one has a ton of cat hair on it and he doesn’t want to vacuum.

The doorbell rings, which probably means Troy has taken pity on him. Kent turns the movie off because he’s a gentleman, then moves Kit off his lap to go get the door.

When Kent opens the door, the first thing he notices is that Jack looks nervous. Jack’s eyes are anxious, and his hands are shoved in his jeans pockets, and his shoulders are broad in his white t-shirt, and he’s totally, unfairly beautiful. 

Jack says something. Kent can’t hear him. He has to clutch at the door frame next to him to keep on his feet. “Jack?” he says, finally. Like, duh. It’s Jack. Kent still feels disoriented, so he carefully lowers himself to sit on his front step. He stares up at Jack. 

Jack’s face softens into a half-grin, teeth showing in what Kent thinks is still partly fear. “Yeah. Uh. Surprise?”

Kent presses his face into his knees and laughs. His eyes feel blurry. “Jesus. Let me guess. You were in the neighborhood?”

It’s amazing, the way Jack’s smile lights up his face. Kent feels just as giddy as he did when he was seventeen and Jack was kissing him all over during one of their “sleepovers”, even though he’s twenty-seven and probably never going to be kissed by Jack again. “I flew into the neighborhood, yeah,” Jack says, and it doesn’t mean anything other than what it says on the tin, it doesn’t mean Jack returns his feelings, but Kent feels chills all down his back anyway.

“Why’d you do that, Zimms?” he asks, and it comes out all shy when he was aiming for chirping.

“To --” Jack blanches a little, and Kent watches his face turn red. “To _talk_ , Kenny. Should we go inside?” He reaches down and offers Kent a hand. Kent lets Jack pull him to his feet.

Inside, Jack sits on Kent’s couch. He takes Kent’s normal spot, but Kent is too overwhelmed to make him move. They sit in silence for awhile, maybe half a minute, and then Jack stretches his legs out a little. “Sorry for just -- showing up out of the blue,” he says. “A phone call felt too impersonal. I guess this is another example of me being -- what’s that word -- extra.”

“Jesus,” Kent says under his breath, and Kit meows at him. 

Jack is staring at him, and when Kent looks back he looks down at the couch. “Uh. I don’t have a particular message or anything for you. I just know that we need to continue our conversation, and there’s only so many times we can leave each other intense voicemails in the middle of the night before it’s time for a change.”

“Jack,” Kent mumbles into his hands, and he wishes so much that he’d had the balls to sit closer to Jack on the couch, because right now all he wants is to lean against Jack, feel how solid and real he is.

So, really, it’s probably a good thing he sat over here.

“I just --” Jack exhales, all anxious and jittery, and rubs his hand through his hair. “Can you talk to me more about how you’re feeling? What you want? Because your call was so -- it was a lot, and you were stressed out. I need to know what’s happening, Kenny.” He scoots over closer, so close their knees are almost touching. “This is hard for both of us, but I -- I know it’s got to be harder for you. Please, Kenny. Tell me what’s going on.”

Kent could stick to what he’s already said, what Jack’s already heard in that voicemail. Maybe that’s what he should do. But Jack’s knee is half an inch away from his, and Jack flew across the country to see him, and after they haven’t talked in almost two weeks just sharing the same air as Jack is making Kent weak.

Jack sets his hand down on Kent’s knee, gentle. “Kenny?”

It’s so much. Kent has to stand up, and he feels like he could pass out. His heart is racing. “You want to know?” he says, and he can barely hear himself past the roaring in his ears. “Okay. So, I love you. I’m sorry. If you don’t like that, I’m sorry, but I’m, like, super fucking in love with you. I agree that we should stop fucking as friends because it makes me, like, really sad, but I still want to be your friend. So, yeah. I know it’s a weird situation, but -- please.”

“Kenny,” Jack says again. There’s hurt in his voice. Kent doesn’t know what Jack’s upset about, exactly, but he feels cold all over. He knows he can survive anything, at this point, but even thinking about Jack walking away from him again makes him feel like his stomach’s getting ripped out or something.

He doesn’t know why he thought honesty was a good idea -- Jack can’t be his friend now, and Jack will think he’s a pathetic loser now, and Jack leaving after _this_ is going to hurt more than every second of the past eight years put together, and --

\-- Jack wraps him up in a hug. “I’m not ditching you,” he says. “I just -- wow. Uh. Wow. That’s a lot to take in.”

“Sorry,” Kent mumbles into Jack’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t make it weird. Please.”

Jack feels good, and warm, but he also feels like he’s trembling. Kent pulls back to survey the damage. “I’m just -- I’m just thinking,” Jack says through a thin smile when he sees Kent’s expression. 

“You’re always thinking,” Kent says sourly, and Jack lets out a weak laugh. Kent squeezes Jack’s arms and then lets go. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. It’s not -- it doesn’t need to be your problem.”

“Kenny.” Jack is definitely shaking. Kent can see it, and it’s his fault. “I’m freaking out right now. You know that. Sometimes I feel like I’m always freaking out. But you’re important to me; you’re one of the most important people to me. Your love is never going to be a _problem_ , okay? I can’t process it very well right now, and I’m freaking out, but you’re not a problem. I’m lucky that you care about me. And I’ll always be your friend. I don’t think I can get rid of you twice.”

Kent snorts. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or what.” He wipes at his eyes as subtly as he can. “Okay. So that’s out there. Are you staying over? I don’t know your schedule.”

Jack turns red again. “Uh, actually, I have to fly back in a couple hours. Can’t skip practice tomorrow.” He shrugs. “I just really needed to talk to you face-to-face.”

“Extra.”

Jack smiles, and Kent shifts on his feet a little. It would be nice to hug again, but he’s not sure it’s going to happen. “I probably should go,” Jack says. “I can’t believe I’m flying ten hours just to talk for ten minutes, but I need to -- I think you get it. I need some time to process.”

“Yeah. Ten hours, though? It’s, like, seven hours each way. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I flew here from Chicago,” Jack says. “Not that bad.”

Kent closes his eyes for a few seconds. “Okay, Zimms. Get going.” He startles a little when he feels Jack touching him again, but it’s not a real hug -- just a gentle squeeze on Kent’s elbow, a warm hand pressed against Kent’s shoulder. “Oh,” Kent says. He opens his eyes and is embarrassed to feel tears in them. 

“I’ll see you soon, Kenny,” Jack promises. “I just gotta go now. Are you coming to my parents’ place for Christmas?”

“I dunno,” Kent says. He tries not to flinch when Jack moves his hands away. “Hey, did you put your dad up to that? I was wondering.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he reaches out to pat Kent on the arm again. “No, bud, that was all him. He’s always thought you were pretty great.”

Kent feels himself blush. Ugh. “Okay. Maybe. I might be able to make it.”

“I hope you will,” Jack says, all earnest, and Kent feels starry-eyed and stupid. _Ugh._ “I don’t want you to spend Christmas alone.”

They hug one more time before Jack goes. Jack lets Kent cling to him for a few seconds, which is involuntary on Kent’s part and totally embarrassing, and Jack cups one hand against the back of Kent’s head, stroking his fingers against the hair there a few times before letting go.

When they pull apart, it feels uncomfortable. Jack can’t look Kent quite in the eye, and Kent can’t think of anything to say. “See you,” Jack finally says.

Kent’s throat feels tight, but he thinks he’s happy. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. “I’ll try to make it for Christmas.”

Jack smiles at him again, and Kent is honestly relieved when Jack turns around to go. He’s feeling too much, and he needs a break.

When Kent finally turns his phone back on, he has another text from Jenny. Two missed calls from his mom. Nothing from his dad.

 _Sorry,_ Kent texts his sister. His fingers are shaking. He’s smiling, or grimacing, or both. He’s going to see Jack again soon. _I already have plans for the 24th._


	5. Chapter 5

Kent manages to keep this development to himself for a total of two days, which is pretty impressive. He finally caves in when he’s alone with Troy watching tape after a super nice massage from the Aces’ trainer.

“Hey,” Kent says. “Guess what.”

Troy doesn’t say anything, but he slouches down in his chair and props his feet up on the table, so Kent assumes that means he’s preparing for a story.

“Jack flew here to talk to me for a couple minutes the other day. It was okay, I guess.”

Troy pauses the tape immediately. “Come again?”

Kent looks at his fingernails. “Okay, so he wanted to talk in person? So he flew down here. We talked. He’s still thinking.” Troy is not filling the silence, so Kent continues. “Yep. Oh, and I’m probably going to hang out with his parents for Christmas? Like, at a party. That should be fun and not at all awkward.”

“Fucking Christ,” Troy says, after a beat. “Keep your Snap story updated. For real.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Kent says. It’s more like he squawks it, really, which is lowkey embarrassing. 

Troy snickers at him, but he pulls Kent in for a side-hug that gets kind of out of hand when Troy practically dumps Kent on the floor. “Dude,” Troy says. “That’s so fucking crazy. Mistletoe kisses, eh?”

“Ugh.” Kent squirms out from under Troy’s arm. “I hope not. Like, not unless he wants to, like, date me. You know.”

“Aww.”

Kent thinks he’s probably spilled enough of his problems on Troy over the last month, but -- it doesn’t really seem like Troy minds. “I’m kind of scared.”

Troy pats Kent’s back. “Scared of what? That he won’t be into you?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Right.” Troy picks up the TV remote again. “I bet he flew all the way across the country just to talk to you for a few minutes because he doesn’t like you at all. Seems reasonable.”

Kent feels his face get hot. Troy turns the game tape back on and smirks at him. “Yeah, okay,” Kent mumbles. Troy turns up the volume and pats him on the back one more time.

  


  


  


  


  


* * * * * *

  


  


  


  


  


The Aces lose on December 23, and Kent gives himself two hours to be upset. Two hours, and then Jasmine from the front office drops him off at the airport.

Kent always likes flying into Canada. He gets recognized more, which is fun at customs. The flight is long as fuck though, since they got to play at home for their last game before Christmas. There’s a layover in Detroit, where Kent buys a humongous bag of gummy bears and takes selfies with four or five fans, plus another dozen people who don’t seem to know who he is but can at least tell that he’s a celebrity. 

This is why he has to wear jeans when he flies, even if he wishes he were in sweats. He gets some crap about always dressing like a schlub in his flannels, but the truth is Kent would be even more dressed down on the regular if he could get away with it. The price of celebrity.

 _getting back on the plane, see u soon,_ Kent texts Jack. The _u_ feels very intimate, which is probably a sign that Kent needs a fucking nap.

He manages to sleep a little for the last hour of the flight, and he wakes up to his ears popping as they descend.

Bob had said there’d be someone to pick Kent up from the airport, and Kent has to hold in a laugh when he sees that Bad Bob himself is here. “Hey, kid,” Bob says, pulling Kent into a true Canadian hug. “How was your flight?”

“Great, I got some sleep in,” Kent says, and he thinks he does a decent job of staying even-keeled and charming for the duration of their wait by the luggage carousel. It helps that a dozen people ask for pictures and autographs.

“You shouldn’t have been the one to come get me,” Kent jokes after yet another hockey fan looks like they’ll have to be mopped off the floor just from talking with the two of them. “Or at least you could have warned me that you were trying to start a riot at the baggage claim.”

Bob pats his shoulder. “I think you like the attention.”

“Oh, it’s a burden. All these people getting excited for little ol’ me.”

Bob laughs, loud and crinkling at the eyes. It takes Kent’s breath away for a second, both because it’s been so long since he felt like someone’s son, and because he wonders if Jack might look like this someday.

He grabs his suitcase, and they go to where Bob parked his gorgeous Jaguar. It’s not exactly Kent’s style, because Kent’s style is “flashy asshole”, but he admires it anyway. 

“Alicia and Jack are out doing some last minute shopping,” Bob explains as they head onto the freeway. “Gifts, but also some favors for the party tomorrow.”

“Got it.” Kent tries to keep his voice casual. “How late will they be out, do you think?”

Bob gives him a small, knowing smile. “I’d imagine several more hours. You’d be better off going straight to bed and sleeping off the jet lag, but it’s up to you.”

Kent is very concerned about that knowing smile. He also hopes, kind of, that this is, like, foreshadowing that Bob is on his side and would support him dating Jack. Probably not, though.

“Sweet,” Kent says. When they get back to the Zimmermann mansion, Bob says he has to make some calls for the party, and Kent wanders off to put his luggage away. 

He automatically heads to the guest room he always used to crash in back when they were teenagers. Everything’s all set up for him, which makes him feel nostalgic and sad in the worst way. Even the bedspread is the same. Kent knows they must have put it in storage and brought it back out just for him, because there’s no way they’ve had that fucking Indiana Jones comforter there for all these years.

(Kent had embarrassed himself by watching Indiana Jones for the first time with Jack, and he literally could not keep his mouth shut about how hot Harrison Ford was in that movie. It was a point of shame in Kent’s life, and Jack kept giving him shit about it, to the point that Jack had told his parents that Kent really liked Indiana Jones and would appreciate some related decor in his room. It had been the most humiliating thing ever, and Kent had been an annoying mix of pissed and endeared with Jack in a way he couldn’t really control, but then it had all been worth it when Jack let Kent fuck him for the first time in that bed.)

It’s a lot to handle, being back in that room again, but Kent still falls asleep before Jack gets home.

  


  


  


  


He sleeps in, which in hindsight was dumb as fuck because he _knows_ Jack is an early riser. So apparently Jack is volunteering to, like, teach kids how to read, and Kent can’t even be mad. Jack is literally the best man alive. Kent needs to go back to bed and either cry or jerk off about it, he’s not sure yet.

But by the time Kent’s done with his breakfast, plans to go back to bed have been cancelled. Bob and Alicia are leaving the house in the hands of the party decorators, and Alicia invites him to go to the movies with her while Bob goes ice fishing with some of his old hockey friends. Kent isn’t good at paying attention to movies, but his teenage crush on Zac Efron kind of gets reignited anyway.

Alicia takes him out for frozen yogurt afterward. Small talk with Alicia is always weirdly relaxing, and Kent feels effortlessly charming when he’s around her. He’s always felt slightly on his guard around moms, just in general, but Alicia’s easy to talk to.

By the time they get home, Jack’s car is in his spot in the garage. Kent goes straight to his own room and tries to focus on what he should wear to the party -- he brought three possible outfits, just to delay the torture of choosing. He starts trying on suits and puts on some Lana in the background, because he is just classy like that.

Eventually, he goes with a dark gray suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. There’s never anything Kent can really do to solve the dilemma that is his cowlick, so he puts in a moderate amount of gel and spritzes hairspray onto his comb, trying to at least get it in place so it doesn’t flop in a million directions throughout the night. He has this nice cologne with a spicy apple-y smell, and he feels expensive and sexy by the time he’s all ready. 

The place is exquisite. The whole ground floor has an open layout, which makes it perfect for a party, and the silver and white decor makes everything feel enchanting, like magic and wishes and true love exist.

Bob gives him a hearty clap on the back, and after a few minutes of chatting with the small crowd of hockey legends in Bob’s corner, Alicia whisks Kent away to mingle with some of the charity reps in attendance. 

Kent keeps his most dazzling smile plastered onto his face, and shakes a billion hands, and collects a fucking booklet of business cards. He finally excuses himself to go grab a mug of eggnog. It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and tastes so boozy Kent knows Alicia had something to do with it. 

The best part is when Jack comes to grab a drink too. He stands close enough that their sleeves brush for a second. Kent feels dizzy, and he takes another swig from his mug.

Jack smells like the ocean, all bark and salt. He’s wearing a gray-blue vest over a lighter shirt with a dark tie, and he smiles a little shyly at Kent. 

“Nice party.”

“I’m glad you came,” Jack says. His eyes keep darting from Kent’s eyes to his mug, up to his face again. “It’s -- would you pass me the peppermint?”

Kent stares at him, but he figures it out and hands Jack a little cup of peppermint extract for Jack to drizzle into his eggnog. Their fingers brush, and Kent jumps a little when Jack’s hand shocks him. “Oh,” Kent says. He laughs. It’s breathy and sounds dumb.

“You look nice,” Jack says. His ears are red. Before Kent can embarrass himself further by answering, Jack has grabbed onto his hand one more time to squeeze it before walking off to talk with a couple people that Kent thinks are his old college friends. He recognizes a couple of them from that bachelor party a year ago, but none of them are drunk now.

That’s too scary for Kent. He can handle talking about the Aces’ playoff chances with Mario Lemieux, but he’s not going to chat with people who probably are way smarter than him and who probably wish Jack was still dating Eric Bittle. 

Kent talks to a couple of Alicia’s old modeling friends for awhile. He looks over at Jack. Jack’s smiling, all shy and awkward and heartbreaking, and talking with his buddies. Then Jack glances over at Kent, and his face brightens with a weird, nervous excitement. 

Kent blushes and looks away.

When Kent goes back to grab more of that spiked eggnog -- and he’s going back a lot tonight, if the way he feels every time he catches sight of Jack is anything to go on -- he feels a prickle down the back of his neck. He tries to ignore it, because it’s totally fake and made-up that you can feel people looking at you, but when Kent finally turns around Jack is eyeing him. 

Kent looks down, shy all of a sudden. When he glances back up, Jack is still looking at him. His eyes are intense, almost electric across the room. 

There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the big lattice windows. Kent stays far away from it. 

He doesn’t talk to Jack again for the rest of the night, but by the time the party’s over Kent feels so exhausted that they might as well have had a thousand conversations. 

Kent goes back to his room to change out of his suit while the Zimmermanns close out the party. It’s not like Kent’s hosting, so it would be weird for him to say goodbye to the last stragglers, anyway. He emerges twenty minutes later in a hoodie he’s had since high school and his favorite pair of sweatpants. 

Alicia and Bob are guzzling champagne at the kitchen counter, still in their formalwear. Jack’s vest is unbuttoned, and Kent sees the moment Jack notices him -- Jack’s body language goes from tired and relaxed to nervous and jumpy. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Ready for bed, Kent?” Bob yells. He is so fucking drunk. Kent laughs and joins Bob and Alicia in drinking champagne right out of the bottle until the three of them have dredged up enough will power between them to put it away.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Jack says, watching. “Any of you.”

Bob hiccups, which sends Alicia into hysterics, and Kent giggles until he’s practically crying. He puts his head down on the counter for a little bit, and when he sits up again it’s just him and Jack in the kitchen.

“Oh,” Kent says.

Jack is looking at him. “I remember that sweatshirt,” he says. “It still fits you.”

Kent wishes Jack would touch him. It’s distracting. It’s all he can think about. “I’m so fucking tired,” he says, instead of saying anything horrible.

“I liked seeing you tonight,” Jack says. He’s so cute. His little vest is so fucking sexy on him. He’s smiling at Kent, all sweet. “Kenny. Can you even stand up?”

“Mm-hm.” Kent stands up, and since his momentum is already taking him that way, he nuzzles into Jack for a hug. “Mmm.” His hands slip under Jack’s vest, resting over his shirt. It’s fine. Jack feels warm through the fabric, strong and hard and perfect. He tightens his arms around Kent, and it might actually be the best feeling in the world. Kent can barely get his neck to support his head right now, so he lets his head flop back, closing his eyes. “You smell really good.”

Jack laughs, quiet. “Thanks.” One of his hands brushes against Kent’s face for a moment. It’s gone before Kent can even lean into it. “I think you should go to bed, eh, Kenny?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Kent moves forward and presses his forehead into Jack’s chest for a second, centering himself. When he feels like he can walk again, he pushes off. “See ya tomorrow, babe. Bro. Jack.”

Jack smiles at him again. It’s the most beautiful thing Kent’s ever seen. “See you, Kenny.”

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent sleeps in the next morning, then hangs out in a coffee shop a few blocks over to give the Zimmermanns a little space. They have their own family stuff to do on Christmas Day, and he doesn’t need to be in their hair, and he’s also kind of anxious for some reason. So he Skypes his cat-sitter, who waves Kit’s paw at him on the screen, and texts the team a quick Merry Christmas, and orders some wontons to get delivered right to the coffee shop. Not very Christmas-y, but he’s rich and he’s craving some wontons.

Jack is spending the afternoon with college friends, which hurts Kent’s feelings more than he’d like to admit, but whatever. He has plans to hang out with Bob and Alicia at this restaurant called Grinder, which he thinks is some kind of gay joke until they get there and he sees how fancy it is. Kent orders the most expensive bottle of wine he sees, mostly to impress Alicia, and he’s just starting his third glass when Bob says, “Are you sure you want to drink that much right before hitting the slopes?”, which is how Kent finds out they’re going skiing. 

Kent sucks at skiing. He skips over the bunny hill because he has _some_ pride, and because he knows it won’t really help, and it’s a relief when Alicia suggests she and Bob move to the black diamonds slope while Kent takes another turn on the blue square.

“Totally,” Kent says. He’s panting a little. So far no one has recognized him, which is a fucking blessing because he really doesn’t need anyone to upload a video of Kent Parson wiping out anywhere on the Internet. 

As soon as Bob and Alicia are out of sight, Kent takes his skis off and waddles down the rest of the hill so he can go back into the ski lodge and drink some hot chocolate. He’s not driving, so he orders a nice helping of brandy to go with it. This, he thinks, is probably what Alicia guessed he would do. It’s sort of embarrassing, but at least he’s warm and not bruising his tailbone on a stupid hill.

Bob and Alicia find him eventually, and they run into some of Alicia’s old friends, which means that Kent is stuck being the center of attention for awhile while a group of fifty-year old women touch his hair and discuss how lovely he is. It’s _awful._

“I suppose it’s time to get going,” Alicia says after awhile, briskly checking her watch and looking at Bob and Kent.

Kent is right in the middle of getting Shelly’s famous chili recipe, which is very important, but after a minute he’s able to tear himself away and join Bob and Alicia at the door. “Sucks to head out so soon,” he says. His cowlick is kind of in disarray at this point, but he doesn’t really care. “Do you guys have big plans for the rest of your Christmas?”

“Just relaxing, I think,” Bob says, smiling at Alicia. “We’re more worried about getting you out of here on time.”

“On time? On time for what?”

Alicia shakes her head at him, the picture of tolerant amusement. “For your date with Jack, remember? Or, I suppose date isn’t the right word. Dinner.”

Kent stares at her. “What.” Like. What? 

“Bob, didn’t you say anything?”

Bob blinks at them. “That was my job?”

“Jack asked you to let him know, dear.”

“Well, then I guess it was my job.” Bob grins at Kent, who can’t really smile back right now when he feels like he’s dying. “Jack wanted to see you before you fly out tomorrow morning. We were planning on dropping you off for dinner. Is that alright, or do you have big plans with someone else in Montreal that I don’t know about?”

“I think I can make it,” Kent says faintly.

“Well, what do you know,” Bob says. He’s smug in that way that only a dad can be. “Kent can make it.”

Kent’s not sure he’s going to make it, actually, but they drop him off and it’s not too hard to find Jack once Kent actually goes inside. Jack’s in the back, sitting at a cute little table with a small vase of flowers in the middle. It looks like a date, regardless of what Alicia said, and Kent feels kind of like he’s being cruelly taunted with what he can’t have, but there’s no way in hell he’s saying no.

“Hey there,” he says once he’s crossed the room. Jack looks up and smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Jack says. He smiles when he sees Kent’s tremendously ugly sweater after Kent takes off his coat. “I ordered you some coffee? I love their hazelnut blend here.”

Kent takes in Jack’s hair, which looks shinier than usual. His warm gray button-up; his eyes, which look soft instead of piercing in this lighting; his skin, rosy from the cold. “You smell like peppermint,” Kent blurts out. “I think. Is that you?”

“Oh.” Jack sniffs at his own hands. “I think so. Mom got me this nice lotion for Christmas.” He extends one arm across the table, kind of awkwardly, so Kent smells Jack’s hand. It does smell good. “Yeah. It was mostly clothes this year, though. I think they want me to dress better.”

“Well, someone has to do it for you,” Kent says, and Jack puts on his best fake-offended look. It’s unfairly adorable. 

“What about you?” Jack shoots back. He’s so -- energetic, and confident, Kent thinks, and it feels like the hair on his arms is standing up. “You get another dozen flannels for Christmas? I don’t know fashion, but I don’t think you’re one to talk.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “You love my flannels.”

“Oh?” Jack raises one eyebrow, the sassy fucker, and then cracks up when he can’t hold the expression anymore.

They’re interrupted by a server who’s checking if they’re ready to order. Kent hasn’t looked at his menu yet. He kind of forgot they were at a restaurant.

“Um.” Kent scrambles to get his menu open. “I’m not sure. What would you recommend? Pasta?”

“Actually, do you want to split a pizza?” Jack asks. “I like the Danisi here.”

Kent has no idea what that is, but he’s down for whatever. “Sure. Sounds good. Merci?”

Jack looks absolutely delighted. He always has loved watching Kent flounder in a foreign language. Because he’s a dick. Kent steps on his foot under the table, and Jack keeps the same polite smile on his face as he hands the server their menus.

“It’s nice here,” Kent says after a while. “Fancy but not too fancy, you know?”

“I’m glad you like it.” Jack smiles at him. It’s a warm smile this time, and Kent feels covered in it head to toe. “Is the coffee good?”

“Oh my god, so good.”

“Good.” Jack taps their feet together under the table. “I won’t laugh at you if you want to add a whole lot of creamer to it.”

“Oh, I’m past that now,” Kent says, and Jack smiles at him again. Kent’s not used to Jack looking at him like this -- like, yeah, Jack _smiles_ , but not like this. Soft and light, but as if Jack can’t keep it off his face. It’s making Kent feel warm, and special, and really fucking nervous. “Now I drink my coffee black. Like a boss.”

Jack gives him that smile again.

Kent looks down at his coffee. His feet feel all tingly. He’s probably being dumb.

When the pizza comes, Jack reaches across the table to show Kent the best cheese to sprinkle on top of it. It’s so good, and Jack thanks the server in French and asks for another pot of coffee. Kent tries not to look too doe-eyed. He thinks he’s probably failing. 

Jack eats his pizza quietly, and Kent sneaks another glance at him. The lighting is faint, almost golden around him, and Kent can barely breathe with how pretty Jack is. He seems calmer than usual, nothing tense at all in his face, and Kent feels lucky that Jack would spend the last few hours of his Christmas here, with him.

  


  


  


  


They linger over their food, and Kent orders dessert (Jack denies wanting it during the season, then steals half of it when it shows up). But eventually, it's time to say goodbye. He has a reservation for a hotel room his last night in Montreal and a text on his phone confirming that Bob already dropped off his luggage for him. Kent’s flying back to Vegas the next morning while Jack stays another day, and he doesn’t want to get in the Zimmermanns’ way any longer. 

It’s just easier this way, apart from all the ways it hurts. Kent feels full and empty at the same time. He got so much of Jack over these couple days, but that just makes him even more aware of how much more he still wants.

“Where's your hotel?” Jack asks as they climb into his car. “I can drop you off.” It's kind of a pointless comment, since Kent doesn't have his car with him tonight after being chauffeured around by Bob and Alicia all day.

Still, it's nice of Jack to say. “Thanks. It's not too far, like, maybe ten minutes?” Kent gives Jack the address, expecting Jack to plug it in on his phone's GPS. Instead, Jack just sits there with a weird look on his face. “Do you know where that is?”

Jack looks up, meets his eye. Kent's heart feels like it skips a couple beats. “Aren't you flying out tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah, Zimms. Got a game in a couple days.”

“It just seems like I haven't seen you at all while you were here,” Jack says. “Maybe you could come back to my house again instead?”

Kent tries to ignore the happy, warm feeling that sneaks under his skin at those words. He really, really tries. “That might be cool. I still need someone to drop me off at my hotel in the morning, then.”

Jack starts the car. He doesn't turn on the radio, and Kent reaches over to do it because he can’t handle the silence. He fiddles with the dial until he finds an old Kelly Clarkson song. “I can do that,” Jack says. “So let's go back to my place, then? If that's okay?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He looks out the window and waits for his heart rate to get under control. There’s no reason to assume this is going to be a big thing. Jack probably isn’t telling him that they can’t ever be together. Jack probably isn’t telling him that he’s in love with Kent. They’re probably going to talk about hockey, drink hot apple cider by the fire, and fall asleep in the living room while the local news plays in the background. 

It sounds fucking amazing. Kent has goddamn butterflies in his stomach.

Jack hums along to Miss Independent. Kent stares at him until Jack glances over, and then Kent’s laughing at him and Jack’s turning red and swatting at Kent a little. “Hands on the wheel, Zimms,” Kent says, partly to give Jack a hard time and partly because he definitely doesn’t want to die in Canada.

Inside, Jack shoos Kent into the living room while he gets drinks and snacks prepared. Kent considers the couch, but he likes the way the Christmas tree looks, the only light in a dark room, so he curls up next to it and waits. The Zimmermanns don’t do stockings, at least not anymore, but there’s a fabulous sparkly nutcracker standing guard by the fireplace. Kent has no idea which Zimmermann it might belong to, and he’s studying it when Jack comes over and joins him on the floor.

“Oh shit,” Kent says when he sees that Jack brought a bowl of white chocolate pretzels. “Yes. Thank you.”

Jack smiles and offers him a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Kent takes it; the mug is too hot to touch anywhere except the handle, so there’s an awkward transfer where his and Jack’s fingers skitter over each other for several seconds. Kent can’t help it -- he feels his face warm up, and he looks down with what’s probably the world’s dumbest, most lovestruck smile on his face.

It doesn’t need to be a big deal. He literally already told Jack he loves him. But it’s kind of been the elephant in the room since then, and Kent avoids looking at Jack as he blows on his hot chocolate and hopes some of his dignity will come back. “Mmm,” Kent says after he takes a small drink. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Parse.”

Kent shrugs. Doesn’t look up. “Hmm?”

Jack is nervously moving the pretzels around on his plate. “I, um. I need to talk to you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Okay.” He isn’t ready; he wasn’t expecting this. He made this happen with his stupid love confession and his stupid inability to stop looking at Jack with a fucking adoring look in his eyes for more than two seconds at a time. Fuck.

“I need to tell you --” Jack stops. He breathes in and out a few times, and Kent feels suspended, waiting. “I don’t know what to say. Sorry. Kenny, I --”

Kent’s chest feels expansive, like it’s filling with hope almost physically. It’s second-nature to push it down, at least when it comes to Jack, but they’re together on Christmas. Hope can spring fucking eternal. “Jack, hey. Just say it. I need to know.”

“Kenny, I feel really -- when I’m with you --” Jack trails off, looking at Kent helplessly. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Kent says quietly. He reaches out, careful, and gives Jack a chance to move away if he wants. When Jack doesn’t flinch at all, Kent puts his hand on Jack’s back and rubs across Jack’s shoulder blades. “Why’s it so hard for you to say, huh?”

“Kenny,” Jack says again, and he twists to the side so he can tug Kent closer. He wraps Kent up in a hug, one hand soft against the hair at the nape of Kent’s neck, the other warm on his back. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Jack --” 

He loses the ability to speak, or breathe, or think when Jack buries his face in Kent’s hair, kissing him there again and again. It feels perfect. It feels like more than Kent deserves. He leans into it anyway. “Jack? Uh, what’s up?”

Jack touches Kent’s face as he pulls away to look at him. “I think I love you,” he says. He sounds more scared than excited about it, and Kent moves easily with him when Jack drags him closer to kiss Kent’s hair again.

“I love you too,” Kent says, tears blurring in his eyes. “Jack. Come on. Talk to me. Why are you upset?”

“Because I don’t know if it’ll work,” Jack says. The words sound torn from his throat. “Last time ended so bad, and we could barely handle seeing each other. Now that you’re here, I’m -- I don’t want to lose this if things go bad. I don’t want to go back to not having you, Kenny, and I’m scared I’ll fuck things up, and -- and I don’t want it to be like that again. What if we try, and I’m bad at this? I don’t --”

Kent leans back so they can see each other, but he holds onto Jack’s hand. “You won’t. And I’m not going anywhere, you know that.”

Jack doesn’t look Kent in the eye. He stares at their hands, warm and intertwined. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s -- you’re so confident in how you feel, and you knew you loved me a long time ago, right?” 

Kent squeezes their hands together and nods. 

“I’m not like you, Kenny. And I want you, I want to be with you, but I don’t want to keep hurting you. I mean, I think I love you, but how do you even know? I don’t want to tell you that if I realize later I was wrong.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “That would suck.”

Jack laughs and scrubs his free hand over his face. He leans back against the couch, and after a second Kent moves over so he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at Jack. “Uh, you should drink more of your hot chocolate before it gets too cold,” Jack says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says, but he does it anyway. It still tastes ridiculously good. “I mean, you can’t go to the doctor and, like, officially find out if you’re really in love. It’s not a pregnancy test. But I know I love you because of how I feel when I’m with you. You don’t need to overthink it, you know?”

Jack throws a pretzel at him. “Yeah. I know that.” He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at Kent, and Kent starts to feel the moment catch up to him. “It’s just hard because -- I didn’t feel exactly like this the first time with you. This is bigger. But it’s also different from when I was with Bitty, and I _know_ I was in love with him.”

Kent wants to touch all the worry out of Jack’s face. He wants to hold him, and be held, and have free access to see inside Jack’s heart and touch him there, too. He settles for reaching down and grabbing Jack’s ankle, ignoring the warning look Jack gives him. “Relax, Zimms, I’m not gonna tickle you. I have _some_ class. But, like, Bittle and I aren’t the same person. At all. I feel like being in love with two different people would feel really different, right?” 

He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t actually know what it’s like to fall in love with more than one person. That kind of goes without saying.

“I know,” Jack says again. “But with Bittle I was so sure. Now that it’s different, I’m scared that calling it love isn’t as accurate. But I think I love you. I really think I do, Kenny.”

Kent drains the rest of his hot chocolate. He feels good. This is the weirdest and possibly least romantic declaration of love ever, but what else is new. “Okay. And just because I’m sure I love you doesn’t mean you have to be sure right now. It’s not a contest. And if it was, I already won, so you can take your time.”

“Asshole,” Jack mumbles, and his voice is all fond. Kent moves over so he’s sitting next to Jack and smiles when Jack loops his arm around Kent’s shoulders. “I mean. Okay. You tell me if you think this sounds like love. I want to kiss you every time I see you. I think about you every day, and pretty much every time I do something or have an idea about something, I want to tell you about it. I want --” Jack cuts himself off, blushing. “You get the idea. Does that sound like love to you? Since you’re the expert here.”

Kent’s face hurts. He’s smiling like an idiot, he notices, and Jack is looking at him with this gorgeous expression that’s a mix of serious, happy, and trying not to cry. It’s the most obvious thing in the world to climb onto Jack’s lap. It’s the best thing in the world. “Sounds good to me.”

Jack traces over Kent’s face with one finger. “I -- I think so too.” He looks at Kent’s lips for a few seconds, swallows, and looks into Kent’s eyes again. “I want to tell you. I was thinking -- if I had to describe how I feel about you without using the word _love_ , I’d say that I, um, adore you.”

Kent knows the expression on his face is probably embarrassing. He feels like he’s going to cry. “You suck,” he mumbles, and when he presses his face into Jack’s neck he can feel Jack’s laugh reverberating against his skin. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” Jack whispers. Kent feels Jack’s breath against his scalp, and it sends chills all the way down his body. “I love you too, Kenny.”

That’s -- Kent feels like he’s going to die, he’s so happy. He could listen to Jack say it a million times in a row and still feel like he’s melting. Kent tilts his head back to look up at Jack’s face, and for once everything between them comes together perfectly. Jack leans down, Kent closes his eyes, and they’re kissing in a way that Kent’s pretty sure they never have before. Not frantic or rushed like in Juniors, not just as a part of sex like the few times they’ve kissed as adults. 

Kent is safe in Jack’s arms, and Jack is tugging at Kent’s hair a little bit, and Kent feels the same urge to give give give everything to Jack like he always does, but for once he knows that Jack wants it all, will treasure it. 

His pulse is thick and hot under his skin, filling his brain and drowning out everything, hard to focus. Kent feels like Jack’s hands are everywhere, comforting and perfect against him -- framing his face, across his back, lightly moving up and down his leg, back in his hair again. “ _Jack_ ,” Kent whispers, almost hysterical with it all.

Jack doesn’t answer, just moves his hands back onto Kent’s face and kisses him even sweeter than before. Kent opens his mouth to it, pushes his hands against the muscles he can feel through Jack’s shirt until Jack gets the picture and pushes Kent down so that Jack is lying on top of him.

And that’s when they accidentally knock over Jack’s mug of hot chocolate. Things were only bound to be romance movie-perfect for so long, Kent thinks, and this is more their style anyway.

“Shit,” Jack says. “Oh, Jesus, that’s going to stain.”

Kent gets up as Jack scrambles to his feet next to him, and he can’t resist planting one more kiss on Jack before running into the kitchen for paper towels. “Just gotta dab it up,” he says over his shoulder, and he has to add a quick one-armed dab, because, duh. 

“You are so unfortunate,” Jack grumbles behind him.

Kent hands Jack a paper towel roll from the counter. “You adore me,” he says back, and it’s just unfair, the way Jack smiles at him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


* * * * * * * 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


It would be super nice if Kent would start playing the best hockey of his life now that his relationship with Jack is all settled and amazing, but unfortunately his life is not an inspiring movie, and the Aces lose their first game after the short Christmas break.

They lose their next game too, and Kent is really pissy about it. He hates losing, always, but losing three in a row is fucking unacceptable. 

“Hey, Parser, what’s up?” Scrappy asks later. They’re sitting with Troy, secluded in the front of the plane while the rest of the team is spread out behind them, all either sleeping or listening to music. “You look different.”

Kent gives Scrappy his best _bitch, are you kidding me_ face. “I think you know what’s up.” He’s so mad right now. The presser after the game was bullshit, and the reffing tonight was bullshit, and the fact that they’ve slipped to third in the division is bullshit. The fact that he got fed two amazing passes tonight and managed to screw both of them up instead of scoring is bullshit, and embarrassing, and he’s sick of letting his team down.

“Well, I might know, but I don’t know?” Scrappy says. “You’re, like, glowing.”

Kent stares at him. “With… rage?”

“Nah, Parse,” Troy says. “You look like a pregnant lady. Or someone who just found out her lover is coming home from war.”

“Why are they all women?” Kent says grumpily. “Men can glow too.”

“I don’t know, dude, it’s just the fucking connotations of the word. You know. But actually, why are you all happy and glow-y? I told you to update your Snap story. Spill the motherfucking beans.”

Kent has this weird urge to show them his hand, like he’s going to have a ring on it or something. _Jumping the gun a little there, Parse._ “Oh. So. Jack and I are together now?”

Troy and Scrappy give Kent this reaction that he wants to keep forever, where Troy opens his mouth in a silent O and just freezes like that, and Scrappy stares back and forth between Kent and Troy with a ridiculously huge grin on his face. “Oh shit,” Troy finally manages. “Holy fuck.”

“I’ve heard rumors that he’s in love with me,” Kent adds. He is very smug and not interested in hiding it.

Scrappy smiles like this is genuinely the best news he’s ever heard. Troy ruffles Kent’s hair and adds, “Of course he is. And if he hurts you, tell him that I’ll -- well, probably do nothing. But I’ll be pissed.”

Kent thinks about the series of eleven texts he has in his inbox, all from Jack, starting from the beginning of tonight’s game. He lowkey wants to read them again on the plane, but he knows he’d start blushing and Troy would probably steal his phone and read them. And it’s not like they’re dirty or whatever, but Kent feels like Jack telling him he’s amazing, that he’s proud of him, is just as personal.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Kent says. “Well. Much. Like, not any more than it’s normal to accidentally hurt people you’re close to? We’re working on communication, so, like --”

“Oh my god,” Troy says, and Scrappy laughs in pure delight. 

He flips them off and moves back a seat so he can reread Jack’s texts.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack flies down to Vegas after Providence drops out of the playoffs. He stays in Kent’s house, in Kent’s bed, which is way less sexy than it sounds because Kent plays and practices and trains all day, then eats a ridiculous amount of food at night, then passes out while Jack sits close to him, reading a book. He’s pretty sure he falls asleep once while Jack is in the middle of kissing him.

That’s okay. They’ve been together for four months now, and even though they haven’t been able to see each other in person since Christmas, Kent feels good just waking up next to Jack. They’ll have plenty of time to explore each other later.

“You’re gonna win,” Jack says as he serves Kent a gorgeous plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. 

Kent lights up when Jack kisses the top of his head, then gets distracted by looking around the table. “Where’s the ketchup? Babe?”

Jack sighs into Kent’s hair. It feels really good. “Can you not put ketchup on everything, just one time…”

“Breakfast of champions.” 

Kent finally gets his ketchup, and Jack sits next to him and drills him on what to expect in today’s game. It takes a couple extra minutes to get Kent out the door because Jack keeps pinning him against the wall and kissing his face, and Kent isn’t exactly in a hurry either, holding on tightly to Jack’s t-shirt, but eventually Jack ushers Kent out the door. He gives Kent’s butt a weirdly bro-y pat on the way out. “You’re gonna win,” Jack promises one more time.

And they do win, over and over and over, until they finally lose. Kent knows he should be grateful for making it all the way to the Cup final, but it just sucks to be that close and still not get it.

What does _not_ suck is shower sex with Jack afterward, or watching Big Brother in bed with Jack, Kit, and a bowl of trail mix until Kent yells at the TV too much and scares Kit away.

“Sorry, baby,” Kent says to Kit’s retreating form.

“What about me,” Jack grumbles in bed next to him.

Kent reaches over and squeezes Jack’s ass, slow and purposeful. “Sorry, baby.”

Jack looks up at him, all open and vulnerable. There’s no way on earth Kent will ever be able to resist Jack Zimmermann’s bottom-eyes, and he never really finds out how that particular episode ends.

(Kent’s on the edge of coming when he hears Jack start mumbling about Kent’s forecheck, all sweaty and awed under him, and Kent kisses Jack to stop himself from laughing. He wonders if he could do, like, a Pavlovian training thing on Jack, so he whispers “Hockey” in Jack’s ear right as Jack’s about to come. Jack swats him on the ass, groaning, and Kent kisses his face so carefully, again and again, even after they’ve settled down.)

They fly to Montreal together by the end of June, and even though it’s kind of weird staying with Jack’s parents -- they have to schedule their sex very carefully, since Kent is never going to learn how to be quiet -- it’s also really nice. Kent hasn’t felt like he had parents in a long time. Bob suggests they go geocaching together, and Kent never quite figures out if Jack put him up to it or if Bob’s just weird like that. 

His sister texts him to congratulate him on making it to the Final. His parents don’t. Kent’s glad for that, honestly, because he’s still scared of talking to them. He tells Jenny thanks, though, and he appreciates that she doesn’t ask if he’s planning to visit over the summer.

“How are you doing?” Jack asks later, when they’re relaxing on the Zimmermann’s backyard patio. It’s kind of chilly out for summer, which Kent is using as an excuse to curl up against Jack’s chest. 

Kent watches this cute little bunny hop across the backyard. “I’m really happy,” he says, and he smiles as he feels Jack’s arms squeeze around him. “I love being here.”

“I love having you here,” Jack says softly, and they sit together in silence for a few minutes, Jack’s chin resting on Kent’s head.

When it gets dark, Kent gets up and pulls Jack to his feet, and they go inside together. Bob and Alicia are out for the evening with a recreational curling group, which Kent will literally never get over, so they have the house to themselves. Kent makes mimosas in the kitchen, because that’s honestly the only mixed drink he knows how to make, and they sit on the kitchen floor, drinking and talking with their legs crossed over each other.

“Okay,” Kent says after they’ve spent way too long debating the merits of country vs. rap music. “You need to take me upstairs and have your way with me before I change my mind. Like, now. Because if I hear you talk about Keith Urban one more time, I’m moving to the guest room.”

Jack pouts at him, and then he sloshes the rest of his mimosa all over the tile floor as he jerks away from something. “Kenny, Kenny, spider. Agh, kill it. Kenny.”

“Why do you always end up spilling your drink,” Kent sighs, but he gets up and squashes the spider under his foot. “Crying and screaming over a goddamn spider. You’ve never been more attractive to me, Zimms.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m still gonna fuck you,” Jack mumbles from the floor where he’s mopping up his drink. “And I wasn’t screaming. Or crying.”

Kent hip-checks Jack the second he stands up. “You will be soon,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like an idiot. He fucking loves Jack Zimmermann.

“No, _you_ will,” Jack says. “You always do.”

Okay, so now that they get to have sex and say _I love you_ at the same time, Kent gets kind of emotional. It’s not a big deal. And Jack’s usually tearing up right along with him, so this is just bullshit. “We’ll see,” he says, letting Jack manhandle him against the wall and arching up into it when Jack scrapes his teeth against the back of Kent’s neck. “ _\--Oh._ I’m gonna make y-you cry.”

Jack squeezes Kent’s hips, coaxing a little sigh out of him. “I think I’ll be too busy making you scream.”

Jack’s bed -- their bed -- smells so good. Kent rolls onto his stomach and breathes it in right away, and after that he’s pretty much a goner. Jack can do whatever he wants to him. He stays on his stomach while Jack lubes up his fingers and opens Kent slowly. It’s honestly embarrassing how many times Kent says “I love you,” except Jack says it back every time, and the words are thrumming under Kent’s skin and blacking out his vision.

When Jack’s using three fingers on him and it’s an easy fit, Kent has Jack stop long enough for Kent to turn over so he’s looking at Jack. He hadn’t noticed he was crying, but now that he’s on his back staring up at Jack he can feel the tears getting caught on his eyelashes.

“You win,” Kent says.

Jack kisses his forehead. “Yeah.” It’s nice of Jack not to rub it in, Kent thinks distantly, and when Jack pushes inside of him it’s even more gentle. “Love you,” Jack whispers, nosing against Kent’s temple.

After Jack finishes in him, and after he’s jacked Kent off so Kent comes all over himself, they stay in bed way too long and everything gets kind of dried up and gross. “You were supposed to do something about this,” Kent says later, patting the nastiness on his stomach.

“Your legs work too,” Jack says. He hasn’t stopped playing with Kent’s hair yet.

Kent rolls away to sit up, stretching his legs out. He loves the feeling after sex when he’s still holding onto the memory of where Jack’s hands were on his skin, but it’s been long enough. “How ‘bout this, champ?” he says, and reaches over to drum his fingers lightly against Jack’s hair. “We take a quick shower together. Then we go for a walk.”

Jack sits up too, crawling across the bed to sit next to Kent. He trails a hand down Kent’s back. “We can’t go for a walk, Kenny. Cameras.”

“Then we can listen to a podcast or something,” Kent says. He doesn’t say that he doesn’t give a shit about cameras, because that’s not true. 

Jack kisses his shoulder. “Sounds good. Last one still in the shower loses.”

“That’s dumb. It’s not my fault you take freakishly short showers.”

Jack laughs and climbs off the bed. He turns around and pulls Kent to his feet, keeping his hands on Kent’s waist longer than he needs to. “Maybe you need to learn to take shorter showers,” he says, and lets go. “I miss you while you’re in there.”

Kent’s face heats up, and Jack smiles at him. It’s gross, because there’s still a layer of dried-up come between them, but Kent pulls Jack in for another kiss, and Jack goes easily, wrapping himself around Kent and holding on tight. “I miss you too,” Kent whispers. He should be embarrassed at how cheesy it all is, but Jack cups his face and kisses him with sweet, careful intention, and Kent can’t feel anything but happy when Jack’s hands are on him. 

Maybe, he thinks as he follows Jack’s perfect ass into the bathroom, he can try to take shorter showers. It’s good for the environment. And Jack’s already made this a competition twice before today, and Kent doesn’t want to keep losing.

Jack beats him this time, though. He’s there when Kent gets out of the shower to dry Kent off with a towel, which Kent really appreciates because it shows that Jack remembers he needs to treat Kent like a precious ruby after they have sex.

“I win,” Jack says, trailing a finger down Kent’s nose and flicking the water away.

“I’ll get you next time,” Kent says.

They have all summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they lived happily ever after. amen. 
> 
> (this one somehow ended up being 34k in length bc the jackparse gods are smiling down on me. double amen.)
> 
> just some tidbits -- 
> 
> i went wild and made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/monstrosit/playlist/3QJuFIahG1eI8KrOICQXBz) for this fic, which is comprised mostly of 70s and 80s songs. take a chance on me is on this playlist, because take a chance on me is the soul of this fic.
> 
> also, i like to drop a fic rec at the end of my own stuff sometimes, so check out [”heart between your teeth”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889971/chapters/11213296) , which is incredible and perfect. i actually had kent and jack 69 the first time they hooked up as a lil homage to this fic, and i’m aware of exactly how weird that sentence was.
> 
> that’s everything! JP is love, JP is life, and i hope i did them a tiny bit of justice.


End file.
